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No. 1 


A CHARMING STORY 


(COMPLETE) 




By AUSTIN ABBOTT 



ISSUED BY THE) 


United States Express Company 



FEBRUARY, 1908 




LIBRARY of oqw&Sess] 
Two Copies Ketch , ■ 

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A CHARMING STORY 

A Half-Hour’s Delight 




SALUTATORY 

M ANY choice and charming stories are lost through 
having been presented to the public in a manner 
that gave them only temporary circulation. In many old 
magazines are found stories of such a character, and it is 
our desire to bring to the attention of our friends some of 
these that will be remembered by readers of a generation 
ago. It gives us pleasure, therefore, to offer on the succeed- 
ing pages, complete in itself, one of the most charming of 
the stories published in ‘‘Harper’s Monthly” in the “Sixties.” 
We are sorry that the author, Mr. Austin Abbott, is no 
longer alive; if he were, it would be our duty and pleasure 
to offer him our apologies for some slight liberties and mod- 
ifications we have taken with the original text. 

We do not wish you to think that this story is revived 
without some ulterior purpose; it is published with the idea 
of impressing upon the mind of the public that the United 
States Express Company issues Travelers’ Checks and 
Foreign Exchange, but we trust this is done in such a 
delicate way as not to offend our readers. 



MY CHUM’S STORY 

BY AUSTIN ABBOTT 


1.— MY CHUM. 

YW HEN I was in college I roomed with — well, never 
mind his name now, for you will hear of him in his 
own way before long. 

He was remarkable in college for three things — quick 
wit, laziness, and story-telling. Of the three, laziness was 
rather his strong point. His stories, of which he had an 
inexhaustible fund, made him a favorite in all circles among 
the students; and his wit helped him out of many a corner 
in which his laziness would otherwise have surrendered him 
to discipline. 

“Don’t hesitate so,” said the Professor of Metaphysics 
to him, encouragingly, in one of our first recitations in 
“Locke on the Understanding.” "Speak out: I think you 
are correct.” 

“The fact is,” returned Chum, who had only glanced 
over the lesson in his quick way, “the author is very 
abstruse, and I feel as if I had a Lock-jaw of the 
Understanding.” 

Chum was not pleased, second term of Junior year, when 
we were required to write compositions once a month. I 
always liked to write, when I had any ideas ; and I 
studied shorthand in order to write other people’s ideas 
when I had none of my own. Chum, who was full of 
ideas, hated to write. “You might as well ask me,” said he, 
“to dispense all the dews of a broad summer evening 
through the nozzle of your garden watering-pot as expect 
me to condense my thoughts, by the point of a mean steel 
pen, on a sheet of note-paper. Why, I think all over, and 
I can’t write it.” 


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After sitting silent at his writing-table he asked me if 
my sister had a sewing-machine. 

“Yes, she has. Why do you ask?” 

“Because I wish you would take her needle out of 
the shank and put a pen in instead, and see if a fellow 
can’t write by working the treadle! But oh, hum! the girls 
have got ahead of us on the labor-saving machines, I am 
afraid.” 

With this he threw down his pen and went off, and I 
believe it was the last time he thought of his composition 
until the Saturday when we were going to the lecture-room 
to read. He then begged a half-quire of paper from my 
portfolio, and confessed that he had not written a word. 

When he was called on in turn to read he rose, to my 
great amazement, faced the Professor, unrolled his half- 
quire of white paper, holding it up between him and his 
preceptor as if it were a hardly legible manuscript, cast 
upon me a confidential but grave glance, cleared his throat, 
and in a steady voice commenced a story which ran sub- 
stantially as follows: 

Many years ago an unfortunate woman, who had mar- 
ried a foreign gentleman of elegant but dissipated habits, and 
followed him with fidelity to the end of his downward 
course abroad, found herself, upon his sudden death in a 
duel, left a widow, far from her native land. Her few 
relatives at home were wealthy, but she had been long es- 
tranged from them by her husband’s course. 

She had now one son, a bright lad of twelve, whose way- 
wardness constantly reminded her of the waywardness of her 
unhappy husband. Etienne’s growing resemblance to his de- 
ceased father enhanced her affection for the boy, while it 
doubled her solicitude as to his future, by continually awak- 
ening the tender but painful memories of the past. 

Some United States Express Travelers’ Checks and a few 
valuables were left to her out of the wreck of her fortune; 
and in this wretched state she counted herself happy that she 
was able to return to her own land, with her alien -born 
son, and bearing the remains of her alien husband. 

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Soon after landing she gave birth to twins, a boy and a 
girl. The nearest relatives of this sad widow, Mrs. Merprise, 
were two brothers, of the name of Krebb, one of whom, 
Louis, paid some attention to her wants. Louis Krebb was 
a wealthy gentleman who resided in the city of New York. 
He was unmarried, but maintained a considerable establish- 
ment, and divided his leisure between his home and his club. 
Among a large circle of acquaintance he was well spoken 
of out of respect to his wealth, and on the same account 
many little eccentricities of character, which would have 
provoked criticism if exhibited by a “small fellow,” as a 
man of moderate means is called by some others, were 
unnoticed in him. 

This brother assisted the widow to obtain a small cottage 
in a quiet village on the banks of the Housatonic River. She 
chose this situation because she desired to live economically; 
and here she might, without great discomfort, even labor with 
her own hands, if that should be necessary, for the welfare 
of her children. To avoid such a necessity she would have 
gladly accepted further assistance from her wealthy brother 
if it had been offered; but the aid which she hesitated to ask 
he would not volunteer to give. Perhaps, knowing her pride, 
he satisfied himself with assuring her, in general terms, and 
not in the most cordial manner, that if she wanted anything 
more she must ask for it. He went back to the city leaving 
her pleasantly esconced in a comfortable little home, but 
without inquiring too closely into her resources for the future. 

Mrs. Merprise struggled successfully for life, and brought 
up her children with such teaching as her own fireside and 
the village school afforded. 

When the elder son, Etienne, was grown a handsome, tall, 
and slender fellow of twenty, and Stephen and Susie, the 
twins, were stout children of eight or nine, Miss Margaret 
Maidstone came to the village to take charge of the district 
school. Her arrival was a great event in the village. She 
was a mature and well-educated woman, who had chosen 
teaching for her profession, as it were. She was prepossess- 
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ing in personal appearance, and every one wondered why 
she should remain a teacher at thirty years of age. 

Etienne at this time was a leading spirit among the 
young people of the village, yet not a favorite with them. 
Others were more thoroughly taught, more practically trained 
than he; but he was more apt and more fastidious, and had 
a superior address and adroitness, which gave him prece- 
dence of them.<< He had a good degree of that power; of 
self-adaptation which enables its possessor to make himself 
agreeable to persons of the most opposite characteristics, and 
even to exert a fascinating influence over minds of stronger 
qualities; but his feelings, though deep, were narrow and 
selfish. He had not those broad, common sympathies which, 
better than anything except the passion of love, call that 
fascinating self-adaptation into exercise, and make the pos- 
sessor universally agreeable. He was conscious of his su- 
periority in manners and tastes, and this consciousness tended 
to repel the affection of those who followed his lead. But 
as yet he was unconscious of the power of self-adaptation 
which gave him this superficial superiority, because he lacked 
hitherto the motive force of a strong affection which should 
set it in play. 

Etienne soon made an impression upon the mind of the 
new teacher that led her to a strong though mixed interest 
in him. She possessed a good share of those ready sym- 
pathies which he lacked, and to the force of these were 
soon added a personal interest in his character and a warm 
wish for his welfare. He was headstrong, and constantly 
resisted the control of his mother; but he soon found him- 
self yielding his own will, with pleasure, to Miss Maidstone, 
and even seeking from her good counsel he would have 
laughed at if another person had offered it. In this way 
an intimacy sprung up between them such as a Junior in col- 
lege is supposed to know nothing about. It is said, however, 
by those who do know, that two hearts do thus sometimes 
effect a telegraphic union, the tie being, in exterior appear- 
ance, nothing but a commonplace, non-conducting, scholastic, 
Platonic affection; while within, concealed and protected by 

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this flexible insulator, is an interior core of electric cord. 

Before she was aware of it Margaret Maidstone was more 
than half in love with Etienne, and had almost half-acknowl- 
edged it. She refused to enter into an engagement of mar- 
riage with him, pointing out the disparity of their ages, and 
asserting the sisterly nature of her interest in him as the 
sole ground of their intimacy. She was, however, too much 
fascinated by the young man to relinquish an acquaintance 
which aroused the most interior and deepest affections of 
her soul. Her prudence sufficed to deter her from accepting 
him as her betrothed, but it did not suffice to withdraw her 
from his agreeable companionship. She indirectly encour- 
aged a fruitless passion, which she vainly thought she could 
control for her own peace of mind, and could use for his 
welfare. 

Little Stephen and Susie, walking to and from school, 
often carried some little message or note between these lov- 
ing friends, and without knowing what they were about, 
promoted the progress of a passion which determined the 
future of their brother. 

At about the time when Margaret began to feel the 
inevitable struggle that was approaching she first met with 
Mr. Krebb, the uncle of Etienne. This gentleman, well ad- 
vanced in years but well preserved in condition, visited the 
town, partly at the request of Mrs. Merprise, who was in 
failing health, and partly to look at a new mill property he 
was urged to buy. It happened that Miss Maidstone was 
returning from New York in the same train, at the end of 
a short vacation, and they met as fellow-travelers, acci- 
dentally discovering that they were going to the same place. 

Mr. Krebb addressed himself with much courtesy to enter- 
tain her. He drew out the mental resources of his fair 
and womanly companion, and gazed with much pleasure 
on her handsome and expressive face, as she conversed 
with her own animation upon the topics of the day. He 
pressed her with questions about the village and the family 
of Mrs. Merprise. She spoke warmly of Mrs. Merprise, 
who was now an invalid, and praised the twins, who were 
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her best pupils. She made an effort to speak of Etienne 
frankly and without embarrassment. But she found in so 
doing that her own tongue revealed to her a sober estimate 
of his character which she had not acknowledged to herself 
before. She spoke no ill of him; but that which she did 
say was so guarded and qualified that she was startled at 
her own words. This conversation on her own part made 
an impression on her mind which she could not efface. She 
felt now, in the presence of Mr. Krebb, that she had 
never before deliberately measured Etienne’s worth. She had 
regarded him with a pure sympathy under the influence of 
his fascinating manners, and in solitude had cherished the 
charm which his companionship possessed for her. But now, 
when sf\e strove to give the best account of him that she 
could, she was alarmed to hear herself speaking so much 
in the tone of apology or excuse. When she was secluded 
in the rural scene where she met Etienne he filled a large 
space in her little world; but a visit to New York, and 
converse with men and women who were full of the grave 
activities of life, enlarged her horizon; she became more 
conscious of her own innate ambitions, and in Etienne’s ab- 
sence a gulf appeared between her own assiduous habits and 
tastes and his unsettled mind and purposeless life. The 
most favorable estimate which her tongue could put forth 
in definite words entered her ears again as a condemnation. 

So quickly does it sometimes cool the heated vapors of the 
brain to make a little circuit in the outer air. 

That which we hear our own tongues say, if it does not 
confirm us, convicts us. Margaret, after this conversation, 
felt that she was self-convicted. What she had said about 
Etienne, by its kindly silence and omissions, defined the nega- 
tive limits of his character, and enabled her judgment, for 
the first time, decisively to condemn the false position into 
which her sympathies and the luxury of his affection had 
led her. 

Such are the contradictions of judgment and affection that 
as they approached the village station her newly-formed 
judgment began to waver before the rising emotion of ex- 
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pectancy. She wondered if Etienne would come to meet her, 
and both hoped and feared that he would. Mr. Krebb 
courteously assisted her to alight from the car, and offered 
her his arm to lead her through the crowd. Following him 
thus, she saw Etienne awaiting them just without. A flush 
of pleasure on her face answered for the moment to the 
flash of delight his countenance showed at the recognition; 
but the next moment he discovered that she was hanging on 
the arm of a stranger. His brows fell; he gazed at her an 
instant; and then, turning, disappeared before she could 
approach him. He was seized by a jealousy which was the 
more sharp because he knew he had no right to be jealous. 
His unreasonableness rebuked the pleasurable emotions she 
had indulged; and her judgment asserted itself again, and 
she condemned him more strongly than before. 

From this time Margaret Maidstone withdrew from her 
intimacy with Etienne. She was wounded by his expostu- 
lations, and half repented her determination; but this feel- 
ing was superseded by regret to see him abandon the good 
resolutions he had formed under her influence. He became 
as wayward as ever before, and she was sorrowfully con- 
firmed in her judgment. 

She was subsequently surprised by the attentions which 
Mr. Krebb paid to her, and soon by his proposals of mar- 
riage. Flattered, yet disappointed, half pleased and half 
indifferent, she tried to arouse in favor of Mr. Krebb the 
emotions that Etienne had awakened. She passively re- 
ceived his addresses, and referred him to “Papa,” as even 
an independent young lady of thirty years may well do in 
a case of short acquaintance. 

“Papa” and Mr. Krebb soon arranged the matter; the 
wedding took place; and in due season Mrs. Margaret 
Krebb assumed her new position at the head of the estab- 
lishment of the elderly capitalist whose name and fortunes 
she had prudentially consented to share. 

Poor Etienne, who had never consented to take “No” for 
an answer from Margaret, declared he would not remain to 
witness such a match, and on the eve of the wedding he 
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broke his mother’s heart by suddenly disappearing. His hat 
was afterward found on the bank of the river; and after the 
lapse of years the opinion that he had drowned himself 
became fully accepted by all the family, and hisi death be- 
came a legal fact. His mother died lamenting her lost son. 
She committed the care of her remaining children to a kind 
neighbor, in whose family they proved industrious and use- 
ful. Stephen adopted the trade of a mason, and shortly be- 
fore he became of age he removed with Susie to New York, 
where he found employment. He neither sought nor received 
attention from Mr. and Mrs. Krebb, but in his own sturdy 
way set about working out his own fortunes. 

Mrs. Krebb, at the head of her city establishment, found 
many hours in which she could not but fondly think her lot 
might have been different — more humble yet more happy. 
Yet she could not, in all her reveries, decisively conclude 
whether she wished it had been otherwise with her or not. 


At this point Chum ceased, and took his seat. 

The Professor sat at his desk, with his chin thrust for- 
ward, and his eyes closely set, looking at Chum. Chum 
rolled up his white paper tightly, put it in his pocket, and 
tried very hard to look unconcerned. 

We could not tell whether the Professor was disap- 
pointed at this lame conclusion of what had promised to be 
a romance, or whether he was dissatisfied that a love-story 
should be introduced among the grave essays which Juniors 
are wont to produce. 

He tapped on his desk and said: “Young gentlemen, you 
may hand me your manuscripts for corrections. I will re- 
turn them next week.” 

Chum was evidently shocked; but he buttoned over his 
pocket, and, after the others had handed in their sheets, he 
rose and said, respectfully: “If you please. Sir, mine is not 
yet finished. It will be concluded next time, so it will be 
necessary for me to keep it; and I will hand both parts in 
together.** 


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Saying this, he sat down and folded his arms as if there 
was nothing more to be said. 

“But I shall assign you a subject for next session,** said 
the Professor, looking askance at Chum. “I wish you all 
to take the same subject: say — say Heroism .* 

“Heroism!” said Chum. “That’s exactly what the next 
part of my composition is about.” 

Before his last word was uttered the class broke up. 
Chum, sitting next me, near the door, was the first to escape. 

“There’s your paper,” said he, tossing down the half- 
quire. “Much obliged.” 

II. — HEROISM. 

After our Professor of Rhetoric, in second term, Junior 
year, had given us a subject for composition, instead of 
leaving us each to choose his own, Chum seemed more disin- 
clined to write than ever. He is certainly a fellow of 
ability, and, listening to his conversation, you would think 
him full of intellectual wealth. But he never would work. 
This, however, relates to what he used to be. I hear recently 
that he has at last set up in life for himself, has married a 
good, sensible New England girl, and got a place on the 
editorial staff of a New York daily paper. I have no doubt 
that between them, he’ll get bravely over his college indo- 
lence. 

Chum seemed to make no more preparation for his second 
composition than for his first. He is quite incapable, I know, 
of deliberately planning a deceit; and I doubt whether he 
gave a thought to his appearance in the class without a man- 
uscript until the other boys began to read. 

As his turn approached he whispered to me, “Where’s my 
paper? Give me some paper.” 

“I have none,” replied I, laughing at his anxiety. I 
thought he richly deserved to be caught, for presuming so far 
on the Professor’s ignorance or indulgence as to tell one of 
his rambling stories instead of writing a composition. 

He shrugged his shoulders and sat back composedly. 

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When I finished my reading, and the Professor occupied 
himself in marking his estimate of its merits upon his record 
of the class, Chum took up my manuscript curiously, and 
turned over the leaves. In a moment his name was called, 
and he was on his feet, holding up my paper before him, 
and with his prepossessing effrontery actually reading the 
title of my own grave essay as the name of his story. The 
boys were naturally more interested in one of Chum’s tales 
than in their own homilies, and even the unsuspecting Pro- 
fessor settled himself comfortably in his chair, as if enjoy- 
ing a sort of gratification in this variation of our routine. 

“Heroism is not, as has been well said by an able 
writer” — and here, with mock gravity, Chum gave a glance 
at me, as if to mark the compliment, and acknowledge that 
he was reading the first sentences of my own essay — “heroism 
is not confined to the lofty and the great. It is often found 
in its purest state among those who, by reason of their hum- 
ble circumstances, the world will never recognize as heroes.” 

These were mp very words! I thought it was a fine 
sentiment when I originated it, and I think so still. I did 
not know whether to be vexed or gratified by his stealing my 
work; but it sounded so well, as he rolled out the rounded 
period, that, instead of snatching my manuscript from his 
hands, I sat still to hear more. 

But although his eye seemed to follow my lines, and he 
turned over leaf after leaf as he went on, that was the 
end of his extract, and he commenced his own “composi- 
tion,” as I suppose he called it, in the following tenor: 

Upon the deck of a small trading-vessel on the Atlantic, 
about midway between New York and Liverpool, two young 
women sat in a crouching posture against the bulwark, the 
better to evade the violent motion of the vessel, which was 
riding over the huge waves of a subsiding storm. They were 
dressed in thick, dark, short skirts, each with a handkerchief 
pinned over the shoulders. The elder wore a white cap 
much disheveled and stained by the weather, while the fair 
hair of the younger was drawn tightly back each side of the 
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forehead, and half hung, half fell, in neglected locks behind. 
At their feet lay a large Newfoundland dog, who, not 
being able to hold on where he lay, as the girls could by the 
bulwark, seemed in danger of sliding away from them across 
the wet and slippery deck as the vessel rose steeply into the 
air after every downward plunge. From time to time, as 
the vessel thus careened more than usual, he looked up into 
the face of the younger girl with an expression which seemed 
to say that he would not leave their feet if he could help it; 
and she rewarded these dumb assurances of fidelity with 
an affectionate caress or some native Irish words of praise, 
which, doubtless, Newfoundland dogs understand as well as 
any other language. Other groups of wretched, weather- 
worn passengers crouched here and there about the deck. 

“Well, Mary,” said the elder of the emigrant girls, “we 
can’t go on, and we must go back. It is no use talking o’ 
Thomas now. Heaven help him! Here we are going home, 
for they say this crooked track is the straight road to Liver- 
pool. And it’s the hand o’ the Lord or the Blessed Virgin’’ 
(crossing herself), “and you ought to praise her for it,. this 
minute, as I mean to do if I ever set foot on dry shore 
again. 

“And I always thought,” she continued, as her sister was 
silent, “that it was fooling business for us two girls to set 
off alone, and leave mother lone and lorn.” 

“Ah, Biddy dear,” said the younger, turning up a ruddy, 
tearful, smiling face to her sister, and kissing her, “never 
mind what you thought and said; for when Thomas sent us 
a letter that he was hurt and in the hospital, didn’t he tell 
us to come to him if we could, and bring mother, too, if 
she would come, and — but she wouldn’t and couldn’t; and 
weren’t you a dear good girl to come with me, who would 
have had to come all alone of my own heart if you hadn’t; 
and didn’t mother tell us to go, and give us her blessing; and 
what will she say to us if we come back without him, nor 
a word of him, and he sick and dying, and nobody — ” 

This sentence, begun so cheerily, sank at its close into 
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sobs; and the poor girl hid her face in her sister’s lap, 
crying aloud. 

“There now, Mary dear,” resumed her sister, assuming 
in her turn the tone of consolation, “don’t vex your sou! 
with what we’ve gone to do, for we’ll soon be safe back 
again. Indeed, we meant no harm if we did leave poor 
mother, and she consenting to it for Thomas’s good; and I 
can’t sleep o’ nights on the water for thinking of her, and 
who is to take care of her, and being sea-sick and homesick 
all at once.’’ 

“Well,” said Mary, resolutely, lifting her head. “Thomas 
is hurt and sick in America, and we were sent for, and we 
were sent; and we would have gone if we weren’t; and 
what if we have been wrecked? We’re saved; and I say 
we ought to go on to Thomas the very first chance we get.” 

“The first chance you get?” cried Bridget; “and isn’t the 
first chance we’ve got just to go straight back home? There 
we were, in that horrid, sad steerage, when the great ship 
took fire in the storm. Steerage people can’t fight against 
the Lord’s storms and fires and wrecks, and can’t run away 
from them, whatever the cabin folks may do in their boats 
and life-preservers. And don’t you think the Lord sends 
us chances as well as changes, and life as well as death? 
and here is His chance, bless the Lord! for just a handful 
of us, and all the rest burned and drowned and lost; 
and you saved by the hair of your head by a strange dog 
after I had seen you go down with the salt-water in my 
own eyes; and it’s just a chance to go straight home. Come, 
come, now,” she concluded, in a tone of gentle authority; 
“away with your foolish talk about America, and thank 
the Blessed Virgin you< are just where you are, and you’re 
going just where you’re going!” 

To this the younger sister made no reply, but in silence 
threw herself upon the neck of the noble dog to whom she 
owed her life, as if she were thanking him anew; or, per- 
haps, as if, unable to secure her sister’s concurrence in her 
sense of duty to her sick brother, she was throwing herself 
upon Rover as her sole companion, and meditating upon the 
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possibility of launching off with him to swim to America. 

While the two wrecked and rescued emigrants were thus 
discussing their conditions upon mid-ocean, and contemplating 
the sudden change which had reversed their destination, the 
mother sat alone in a plain but comfortable cottage among 
the hills in one of the central counties of Ireland. She 
looked out upon the sunshine and said to herself: “Aweel, 
the girls must now be safe over; and Thomas, God help 
him! they’re with him now. Oh, when will they bring 
him home?” 

Thomas, in his cot-bed in the hospital in New York, 
three thousand miles from home, asked the attendant if the 
weather was fair. 

‘‘And what are you always asking after the weather 
for?” retorted the attendant. ‘‘Never mind the weather. 
You’ll never need an umbrella again unless you lie stiller 
them this;” and she gently spread over the restless sufferer 
the clothes which he had thrown off. 

‘‘Tell me,” said he, moving as if he would, but could 
not, raise his arms to detain his interlocutor — ‘‘tell me, is it 
fair? Does the sun shine? Is there a fair wind?” 

‘‘Come, come!” was the reply, “don’t vex yourself about 
the weather. They told me he was a mason,” said the 
old woman to herself; “and here he is a-raving about the 
weather, just as if he had been off work in the storm and 
must begin again first fair day. 

“Come, come, deary,” said she. “It’s not the weather for 
such as you to go to work again yet. It’s been very bad, 
and you needn’t get up yet. The boss won’t expect you.” 

The poor boy tried in vain to raise himself to get a 
glimpse of the sky from the window, but fell back upon his 
pillow and turned his head to the wall, and the tears 
trickled down his cheeks. He made no attempt to raise his 
covered arms to conceal these silent signs of emotion ; and 
he only said, in a low tone, “But mother will come; she’ll 
come — she’ll come! Or Mary will. Mary will, I £non>. 
Mary will come. Oh, Mary, Mary!” 

Mary, crouching for shelter from the spray upon the deck 
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of the vessel that was carrying her and her sister back 
toward Ireland, was as fully possessed with a sense of her 
brother’s wretchedness as if she had heard the words which 
thus escaped his lips a thousand miles away. She reached 
forth and took from her sister’s bosom a letter which was 
deposited there, and, although she knew it by heart already, 
commenced to read it again. It ran thus: 

“My Dear Mother and Sisters, — Do not be troubled when 
you read this, which is to tell you that I have been badly 
hurt, but am alive, thank God! and getting on bravely. I 
send you twenty pounds, which I have saved of my wages, 
so that you might come out here. Mother, you’ll never 
regret coming to be with your boy here. It is the country 
for us. If a man pays his way, and behaves himself, he is 
treated like a Man. 

“It was a wall that fell on my legs, and I’m in the 
hospital. I don’t lack for a friend, God bless him! who 
sees to all I want. But I want my mother and my sisters. 
Give my love to Mary, and tell her she must come. Come 
all of you. 

“As I can’t move, this letter is written for me by my 
friend, and your well-wisher, 

“Stephen Merprise.” 

Upon the deck of the vessel half a dozen other little 
groups of passengers appeared, who had also been saved 
from the wreck of the emigrant ship. The captain who 
had rescued them stood a little aloof, scanning now his 
encumbered deck and then the horizon. He was a tall, 
handsome man, but regarded them with an ill-favored eye, 
out of humor because this unexpected addition of hungry 
voyagers was too much for his stores, and he would have 
to put his little ship on short allowance. He was therefore 
greatly relieved when he saw a bark of American build and 
rig on the bow; and he made all haste to alter his course so 
as to hail the stranger. 

Soon every one was eagerly scanning the approaching ves- 
sel. Sad and pallid countenances were enlivened by curi- 
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Travelers’ Checks 


osity, and those who had been silent exchanged animated 
conjectures. The ship’s crew prepared to lower a boat. 
The captain hailed the bark, and, after some shouting which 
seemed to Bridget and Mary ^hoarse and inarticulate, he 
turned to his passengers and told them to tumble into the 
boat. 

When the passengers learned that they were to be trans- 
ferred to the outward-bound vessel they hastened to the 
gangway. Bridget alone, holding Mary fast by the waist, 
retained her position. “We’re not going,’’ said she, ap- 
pealing to the captain. “We want to go back home.’’ 

“Well, you’re nice girls, pretty, and don’t eat much. I 
don’t care if you stay with us.” 

“No,” said Mary. “Let me go, Biddy dear. I must go 
on. Give my love to mother, and tell her the last word 
I said to you was that.” 

“You’ll not go on alone,” said the captain. “You’re a 
young lass to venture that.” 

“No, Rover will go with me,” she replied, running to the 
gangway, followed by the dog. 

As she waited her turn to be lowered into the boat she 
looked back at her sister, who was sobbing upon the deck, 
while the captain stood looking at her. 

“Rover,” said Mary, looking at the dog through her tears, 
“you shall stay with her; I can spare you better than she.” 

Mary hurried back to her sister, made Rover lie down at 
her feet, and fastened him by slipping a rope through his 
collar and placing the end in her sister’s hand. “There, hold 
him fast,” she said. “Don’t ycu let Rover go. You need 
him most. Rover, lie still. Good-by again;” and, with a 
kiss to both, the bareheaded girl ran to the gangway, and in 
an instant disappeared over the side of the vessel. The 
cries and shouts of the sailors indicated that the boat was 
cast off. Rover barked and struggled to get free, turned 
and seized Bridget’s arm in his huge jaws, and shook it till 
the rope dropped from her hand, when he ran to the gang- 
way, tripping up the captain as he passed, and leaped upon 
the taffrail, where he balanced himself for a moment, and 
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then plunged into the water after the retreating boat. Bridget 
raised herself in time to see the boat, followed by the dog, 
rise into view and disappear again among the crests of 
waves, showing her Mary looking back and waving her 
hand. 

The brave girl reached New York in due season, accom- 
panied by Rover, and found the friend of her brother who 
had written to them of his accident, our old friend, Stephen 
Merprise, who was now, although a very young man, a 
mason’s foreman. He took her to the hospital, where she 
incessantly watched over her brother, and when he was 
well enough to be removed, Stephen found a home for them 
with himself and sister. 

Bridget, notwithstanding her fears, reached her home in 
safety, and, resisting the urgent requests of her brother and 
sister, she never consented to try the ocean again. 

“Is that the end of your story?” asked the Professor, who 
had been observed rubbing his spectacles when Chum was 
describing the patient in the hospital. 

“That is all, Sir,” replied Chum, rolling up my manu- 
script and pocketing it, just as if it were his own. 

“Well, well,” said the Professor, nodding his head in 
his own meditative way, and pausing. “But I don’t see what 
that has to do with the other story; last month you said this 
would be a continuation. I don’t see the connection.” 

“The connection between this story and the first one?” 
said Chum, interrogatively, as if to gain time to answer a 
puzzling question. “Oh, that will be all made plain next 
time. I have not finished it yet.” 

“Now, young gentlemen,” the Professor began, tapping 
to silence the merriment of the class at this reply. “Now, 
young gentlemen, you’ve had pretty good scope for your 
imagination, and I will give you a dryer subject for your 
next compositions. You have been reading in Political 
Economy, and I will give you, for your subject, A/oney. 
You may treat it in an economic point of view, and discuss 
the precious metals; or in a financial aspect, and elucidate 
20 


Money Orders 


the currency; or in its social or moral bearings, as a power 
for good or evil — ‘the love of money is the root of all evil,* 
you know — there’s a text for you. Or the popular phrase, 
‘the almighty dollar,* will suggest a line of thought; and I 
should like to have some of you, who can give time to the 
necessary reading, discuss the relation between the circu- 
lating medium and the origin and progress of civilization. 
In short, young gentlemen, you see that the subject is inex- 
haustible, and you may treat it in any way you like, so 
long as you treat it seriously. It is a beautiful subject for 
essays. Money, Money!” 

‘‘Could you give us a little to look at, Sir?” asked Chum, 
in a low tone, intended for the class only. The boys 
laughed, and the Professor rapped on his desk. At the end 
of the lesson and on the eve of dismissal conversation 
often took some such license. 

‘‘What was that inquiry I heard?” said the Professor, 
looking around the class. 

Chum said, in the same undertone, ‘‘It’s no use to repeat 
the question. He hasn’t got any.” 

A general but very silent laugh was the only response to 
the Professor’s demand, and he was both too good-natured 
and too judicious to press it. 

‘‘Chum,” said I, as the class broke up, “give me my 
manuscript. You’ll have to write next time. Why, you’re 
positively imposing on the Professor. It’s a shame. You’ll 
catch it yet.” 

“That’s true,” said Chum. “It’s a shame. I’ll go and 
tell him now.” 

So he put on a grave expression and walked up to the 
desk. I followed to hear the conversation. How he could 
have the face to make the avowal I could not imagine; but 
he proved to have more impudence than was necessary, 
for he commenced by asking, in a most respectful and inno- 
cent tone: 

“If you please, Sir, will you tell me how much you have 
marked me for my compositions?” • 

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Use United States Express 

The Professor, whose merit-marks were always a great 
secret, looked aghast at such a question. 

“I beg your pardon, Sir, if it’s not proper for me to 
ask. But all I wanted to know was whether my course 
had been approved, for — ” 

“Oh, yes, interrupted the Professor, smiling — “oh, yes; 
very good story; only I thought you didn’t quite finish it. 
You ought to have written a little more. Now — ’’ 

“But,” interposed Chum, “I haven’t written — ’’ 

“You see,” persisted the Professor, “in a thing of that 
kind — in fiction, that is to say — the art of Rhetoric requires 
that you should satisfy the expectations that you have raised; 
and if I were to criticise your story I should say that the 
fate of the hero and the heroine, or the heroes and heroines, 
has been left rather — well, rather undefined.’’ 

“What I was going to say,” interposed Chum, “is that 
I have not yet committed my compositions to writing.” 

“What! haven’t written them?” 

“No, Sir, not yet. Writing is very hard for me, and I 
thought I would begin in the same way as Homer and 
Demosthenes did.” 

“But you read them from your paper.” 

“No, Sir. I couldn’t stand up and recite without some- 
thing before my face; but I have not written them out yet.” 

“Well, Sir!” said the Professor, “you must write your 
next one, and must write on the subject I gave the class.” 

III.— MONEY. 

Chum felt that he was fairly cornered. He had ac- 
knowledged to the Professor that he had been extemporizing 
his compositions, and now he was oppressed with the neces- 
sity of actually writing. He carried a pencil behind his 
ear all the time, and sharpened it incessantly. He said he 
was trying to “bring his ideas to a point.” He would sit 
by the hour, lounging with his feet on the window, whistling, 
or calling out to the boys on the green; and whenever I 
spoke to him he would reply, “Don’t interrupt me; I am 
writing my composition.” 


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Travelers’ Checks 


At the end of a week he told me it was finished. He 
pulled out of his pocket a half-sheet of paper, folded like 
the back of an old letter, and began reading the notes he 
had jotted there, in a slow, sententious way, very unlike 
his fluent narrative of the month before. 

“Money and United States Express Travelers’ Checks are 
the concentrated essence of Labor. A man who has a thou- 
sand dollars has a thousand days’ work in his one hand. If 
he knows its value he can move about among men with the 
force of a thousand laborers — that is, with a hundred and 
twenty horse-power. 

“To know the force of Money, one must know Labor. 

“When one man has Money, and another has not, they 
contend for its possession. This is Trade, or Robbery, ac- 
cording to circumstances. 

“There are three uses of Money — the use of getting it, the 
use of keeping it, and the use of spending it. Consequently 
it classifies the bulk of mankind into Money-getters, Money- 
keepers, and Money-spenders. Except the misers we read 
of in novels, men do not love money for itself, any more 
than soup-tickets, or baggage-checks, or promissory notes, or 
title-deeds. The ‘love of money’ is the pleasure of mental 
function in getting or keeping or spending. The sponge 
and the spendthrift are equally guilty with the miser. 

“The class of Money-getters includes merchants, gold- 
miners, pickpockets, politicians, and professional beggars. 
Americans are great Money-getters, but they do not care 
to keep. Hence this is a country of great incomes, but 
small fortunes. 

“The class of Money-keepers is small. Literary men 
are not found in it. Lawyers are good at keeping money, 
particularly if it is other people’s. Money, like some other 
essences, has a pungent, sweet taste; but to be kept must 
be corked tightly. It evaporates in the open air, and the 
vapor is called Interest. A mortgage is a condensing in- 
strument which enables a Money-keeper to evaporate a 
Money-spender. 

“The class of Money-spenders includes the majority of 

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mankind. It is natural to spend money before we get it. 
We are all born to this, and cost a great deal before we earn 
anything. The power to get into debt is essential to the 
happiness of all shiftless people, including most of the 
governments of Europe. College students and married 
women, who have no legal capacity to bind themselves, 
satisfy this propensity by getting their fathers and husbands 
into debt if possible. 

“Money is like gunpowder. To make it carry, charges 
should be carefully measured and well rammed down. Its 
explosive power depends on the tightness with which you hold 
it. Scattered loose it fizzles away with no effect. 

“To become wealthy one must both get and keep. To be 
useful the wealthy man must be also a judicious money- 
spender.” 

“That will never do, Chum!” I exclaimed, as he fin- 
ished reading. “Why do you waste your ideas so? There 
is matter enough in that for six essays, if it were only 
written out. Then, too, it is rough. It doesn’t read well.” 

“It seems to me,” said Chum, musingly, as if he had not 
heard my criticism — “it seems to me that it is too long. It 
took me a great while to write it out.” 

“Too long!” said I. “What, that scrap? Prof, won’t 
mark you ten for what doesn’t take you two minutes to 
read.” 

“But if there’s enough matter in it, the shorter the bet- 
ter, I should think.” 

“Not according to the Rules of Rhetoric,” said I. “I’m 
afraid you haven’t read up enough in Blair and Karnes. 
The fact is, to make good compositions you must expand 
your ideas. Blow them up big like a balloon. Beat them 
out thin like gold-beaters* foil. Spread them over as much 
surface as you can. When you have hammered them well 
on one side, turn over and hammer on the other. That’s the 
way to shine in Rhetoric. That’s the way they teach the 
students to write sermons in the Seminary. One little short 
text can be hammered out forty minutes long.” 

“Then I shall never write sermons,” said Chum. “But 

24 


Letters of Credit 


I don’t think my composition is so bad, after all. It is 
short, and mixed up, as you say, and a little rough; but 
that is the way with wisdom generally.” 

‘‘Yes; but people can’t digest pure gluten, nor will they 
take kindly to plain wisdom. You must put some bran into 
your bread if you would make it most digestible.” 

Cham was silenced, of course, for the Rules of Rhetoric 
are unquestionable and unanswerable; but he seemed dissat- 
isfied, and threw down his paper, asking me to fix it for him 
so as to please the Professor, and went away. 

When he returned he was in great glee, and said I 
needn’t do anything about his composition, for he should 
not read it. It seemed that he had met the President coming 
out of Faculty meeting, with the Professors, who were laugh- 
ing, and the President spoke to him, and asked him how he 
was getting on with the system of Homer and Demosthenes, 
and wished him success in it. 

Chum took this as a license to go on in his own way; so 
he threw away his pencil, and gave me his paper, saying I 
might mix as much bran with it as I liked. I was always 
fond of getting ideas from Chum, and his paper afforded me 
matter for our capital essays, which I thought were almost 
as long and good as the ‘‘Country Parson’s,” and when I 
graduated I made my Commencement speech out of the sen- 
tence about the Love of Money. 

The story of Chum’s extemporizing got around the class; 
and when we met again the boys were all ready to laugh 
at whatever he should say. 

When he was called on he rose, with his blank paper, 
and commenced his disquisition on Money, or its equivalent. 
United States Express Travelers’ Checks, as follows: 

Mr. Louis Krebb was one of two brothers between whom 
a large fortune was divided in their youth. Louis was a 
money-keeper, Harry a money-spender. Louis did not marry 
the reigaing belle, nor keep trotting-horses and a yacht, nor 
disburse any money without a good consideration, which he 
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always set down plainly in his account-book. Harry’s for- 
tune leaked away in every direction, until he had nothing 
which he could call his own, and he became a sort of gen- 
teel hanger-on to his elder brother, full of lively antici- 
pations of his death. 

The elder brother, Louis, grew old fast. He became 
whimsical, then queer, then eccentric, and then would have 
been called deranged, if he had not been so wonderfully 
rich. He had peevish fits, when he did nothing that he 
was asked to do, and everything that he was begged not to 
do; and silent fits, when he would not speak for a day at a 
time; and gay fits, when he laughed at everything, particu- 
larly the troubles of other people. After every monthly 
balancing of his accounts he had an economic fit, in which 
he would reduce his household, dismiss a servant, sell a 
horse or a carriage, close up a room or a suite of rooms, and 
thus diminish his expenses. Mrs. Krebb was obliged to 
humor his dismal fancies. She could not but reflect that he 
would not last much longer; and he was accustomed to con- 
sole her for yielding to his capricious parsimony by telling 
her he was saving it all for her. 

When Stephen Merprise reached the age of twenty-one, 
working at his trade in New York, he had with great self- 
denial saved several hundred dollars out of his earnings; 
and he said to his sister Susie that they could now fulfill 
their mother’s last wish. Before her death she had spoken of 
her brother’s neglect of her, and had bade Stephen, if he 
were ever able, to repay the sum that she had received from 
him, and to be independent of him. In pursuance of this 
wish Stephen had preserved the value of the little possessions 
his mother had left, and accumulated his own savings with 
it. The sum thus obtained he now drew from the savings- 
bank, purchased United States Express Company’s Trav- 
elers’ Checks, and with his sister went to his uncle’s great 
mansion to transact the most important piece of business 
they had yet had. 

They walked, with care, across the marble hall, and were 
ushered into the rich man’s library. Mr. Krebb was his 

26 


T rav e’er s ’ C h eel: s 


own steward and accountant. The books in his library 
were chiefly the ledgers in his big safe. 

“My name is Merprise,” said the young man, “Stephen 
Merprise; and I have come on a matter of business.” 

There was no reply. 

“Perhaps you remember my mother,” said he, almost bit- 
terly, vexed at the indifferent look cast upon him, and easily 
conjecturing that he was regarded as a beggar. 

“My mother,” he resumed, raising his voice, after waiting 
in vain for an answer, “Mrs. Mary Merprise. You as- 
sisted her when she was in trouble. We are her children, 
Sir.” 

“Oh, no!” said the gentleman, in a hollow voice, that 
seemed to come from the safe behind him. “I can’t do 
anything more. It was very little — very little I could do 
then, and now I am positively unable.” 

“Come, Susie, let’s go,” said Stephen, turning away. 

But Susie stood still, holding her brother’s arm, and 
waited for him to proceed. 

“It may have been but little to you, Sir,” resumed Stephen, 
thus quietly held to his purpose, “but it was a great deal 
to her and to us. And it was her wish that we should call 
upon you whenever — ” 

“Ah! dear, dear,” the old gentleman broke in. “Call 
upon me! Oh! everybody calls upon me. I have so many 
calls that I am under the necessity of declining. Let me 
give you a piece of advice. There is a rule I have adopted 
which is, not to give anything to anybody that asks for it. 
I’ll give you anything you want if you only don’t ask for it. 
Beggars, rich or poor, I won’t encourage. So I say to ’em, 
‘If you hadn’t asked it, I could have given it to you; but 
now you’ve asked me for it, I won’t do it.’ That’s what 
I say to ’em.” 

Stephen, biting his lips in silence, produced his Traveler’s 
Check, and with a tremulous hand, for it contained the last 
dollar he had, held it out to the old man. 

“There,” said he. “See here. We don’t ask for help. 
You gave my mother money to get a roof for her head. It 

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was all you did for her; and we have come to pay it off, as 
she told me to when she died.” 

‘‘Ah! you wish to pay the debt? Ah! I recollect. It 
was a considerable sum. Was it not more than this? Let 
me see,” and he turned over his ledgers. ‘‘Family expenses 
— Country place — Farm — Mills — Charity — that’s the ac- 
count, Charity. Yes, here is the entry to sister Mary, in 
sundry sums, five hundred dollars. But that was a long 
time ago.” 

‘‘Yes, Sir, a long time; but she wished us to offer to pay 
it, at least.” 

‘‘Oh, of course, very right; but I was thinking of the in- 
terest. It is twelve years.” 

‘‘She mentioned the interest,” said Stephen, ‘‘and it is all 
here.” 

‘‘Twelve years at compound interest will make it — ” 

‘‘She did not say compound interest. I shall only pay 
you simple interest. I cannot do more; this is all the money 
we have in the world. If you don’t choose to take it, very 
well.” 

‘‘Ah, ah! very well. I will not insist upon it — only I 
usually get compound interest.” 

The old man counted off the money and put it in his 
safe. 

‘‘Take a seat, Sir,” said he, recovering himself and speak- 
ing as if they had just come in. ‘‘Pray be seated, Miss 
Merprise. I am very glad to see you.” 

“We will not trouble you longer,” retorted Stephen. 
‘‘We have nothing more for you.” 

‘‘Well, I shall be happy to see you again,” said the old 
main. ‘‘You’re getting on finely, I don’t doubt. You must 
be a good business man to attend so well to such a case as 
this. I am obliged to you. To tell the truth, now that I 
have got it — he! he! — I didn’t much expect to get it again. 
Not much — he! he! Good-morning, good-morning.” 

Stephen stalked out of the room with Susie blushing upon 
his arm. They left the house as the old man said to him- 
self, ‘‘I like that fellow; he’s a little snappish, but he’s inde- 

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Foreign Express Service 

pendent, and he pays his debts. He must be a thrifty fel- 
low. He’s my own nephew, too. I wonder where he lives. 
Yes, he’s my own nephew, and that’s his sister. I must 
remember them in my will. Yes,” he said, smiting feebly on 
his desk, *‘I will give him a chance at something, at any 
rate. 

Old Mr. Krebb thus closed his charity account, and ejacu- 
lated a wish that he might not have another opportunity to 
reopen it — a wish that was soon fulfilled. 

Stephen and his sister returned to their humble lodging 
feeling that they had now to begin life anew. Stephen de- 
clared that he would never set foot in his uncle’s house 
again. How well he kept the resolution remains to be seen. 

It so happened that Mary Cairnes, finding her brother 
so much better as to be able to be left alone, and their 
purse so low as to threaten them with speedy distress, had 
resolved to seek a place as household servant. Susie had 
endeavored to advise her toward some other employment, 
but none had been found. Mary said that she must do 
something immediately, and after advertising in vain she 
commenced applying from house to house in answer to 
advertisements of ‘‘Servants wanted.” By one of those coin- 
cidences which sometimes happen, it fell out that while 
Stephen and Susie were in Mr. Krebb ’s library Mary 
Cairnes entered the same house as applicant for the situation 
of chamber-maid and waitress. Her appearance pleased 
Mrs. Krebb, who engaged her to enter upon her duties that 
very evening. 

When Stephen heard this he at first opposed it, but 
unable to assign a reason why his indignation at the selfish- 
ness of his uncle should hinder Mary from obtaining good 
employment he withdrew his objection, and Mary went to 
her new home. 

She found the great house in confusion and consternation, 
resulting from a sudden shock of paralysis that had fallen on 
Mr. Krebb. She was immediately sent to call several 
physicians, and then to inform Mr. Harry, the sick man’s 
brother. 


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Mr. Harry returned word to Mrs. Krebb that he would 
come; and come he did next morning, with a trunk and 
a servant, and indicated his intention to remain with his 
brother. 

The afflicted wife welcomed even this relief to her soli- 
tude in the great house. 

“Is he able to attend to business?” asked Mr. Harry 
the next morning. 

“Very little,” Mrs. Krebb replied. 

“We must assist him,” said Mr. Harry. “He has not 
made his will yet?” 

“No; but I think he will not need your assistance. He 
has expressed his intentions to me repeatedly.” 

“Ah! has he? But he will need our help to give them 
form. You and I must unite in this; our interests are the 
same. His property is very large; it must not be too much 
cut up. It would be a shame to scatter it. You and I 
must see to this.” 

“It will not be much scattered, Mr. Harry. I may as 
well tell you frankly that he has declared his intention of 
leaving it to me, as we have no children.’ 

“Ah, I see. You have him under your thumb, and 
you mean to monopolize him. Come, now, thai will never 
do. Undue influence is enough to set any will aside. We 
must unite in this, as I said. Our interests are the same. 
You shall have one-half the personal property for life, be- 
sides your dower in the real estate; and I will be content 
with the other half. There is a million and a half apiece. 
That’s fair. I’ve no doubt he would agree to that.” 

“Indeed, Sir!” exclaimed the wife, “I can not discuss 
such a question with you.” 

“Well,” urged the brother, “I will give you this house 
and the country place for life,” and he waved his hand 
as if he were generously disposing of his own. “You shall 
have them both for life. You shall not be disturbed.” 

“I can not listen to any proposals upon the subject,” 
said Mrs. Krebb. “I know my husband’s intentions, and 

SO 


Travelers’ Checks 


I shall not be a party to any attempt to influence him to 
take any other course than that which he prefers.” 

‘‘But consider,” urged Mr. Harry; ‘‘there are the Mer- 
prises; one of them is a regular vagabond, and the others are 
of no account at all, I understand. They’ll come in for a 
big share if you and I don’t agree upon something.” 

‘‘A vagabond! Who? Where?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Krebb; and after turning away her face to conceal her 
emotion, she continued, ‘‘I am astonished. Is he — I thought 
— I — I am astonished to hear you speak so of — of my 
husband’s relatives.” She hid her face in her handkerchief 
and left the room. 

Mrs. Krebb was not a person to yield so important a 
point as her husband’s will without vigorous contest. Ten 
minutes after this conversation she called the waitress, and 
said to her: 

‘‘Mary Cairnes, take a cab and tell the driver to go 
to No. 51 Wall Street. Go upstairs to Mr. Search’s 
office. See him yourself, even if you have to wait. Give 
him this card; and after you have given it him tell him 
that / sent you, and as Mr. Krebb is very ill, I beg him 
to ask for me when he comes to the house. For me, you 
understand, Mary.” 

The card contained a line saying that Mr. Krebb was 
ill, and wished the lawyer to call immediately to receive 
instructions on a matter of great importance. Mary took 
it and disappeared. 

At about the same moment Mr. Harry rang for his 
servant, and said to him: ‘‘John, find out quietly down 
stairs who is my brother’s lawyer, and go to his office im- 
mediately, and tell him that Mr. Louis Krebb is ill, and 
must see him directly. Tell him to ask for me when he 
comes.” 

In a few moments John returned and said to his master, 
‘‘Search is the lawyer’s name, in Wall Street, but Mrs. 
Krebb has just sent a messenger for him.” 

‘‘Ah ha! She has! Very good, very good. But 
that makes no difference. Go yourself, instantly; and 
31 


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mind, now; see that you get there first. Remember, he is 
to ask for me when he comes.” 

Having dispatched his servant on this important errand, 
Mr. Harry went softly up stairs and entered his brother’s 
chamber. The sick man turned his eyes upon him as he 
approached. 

Mr. Harry motioned to the attendant to retire, and 
seated himself at the bedside. With the manner of one 
who would express an affectionate salutation, he laid his 
hand upon the helpless hand of his brother. After bidding 
him good-morning he talked some minutes upon general 
subjects, and then opened the topic of immediate interest. 

‘‘Mrs. Krebb is very anxious that you should make your 
will. Can I assist you in any way?” 

No answer; but a rolling of the eyes, which looked as 
if the old man desired to shake his head, but had not 
the power. 

‘‘She has her own ideas of what she wishes you to do; 
what she wants you to give her; and, doubtless, her own 
ideas of what she will do with it when she gets it. Do 
you understand me?” 

No answer; but an almost imperceptible raising of the 
eyebrows, which looked as if the old man desired to nod 
his head but could not. 

‘‘She is still a young woman, and she has naturally her 
ambitions and her attachments. She has never forgotten her 
old admirer. I see that , since you are sick. She is very 
attentive to you, is she not? Does every thing you want? 
Yes? Certainly. And she has often told you what she 
wants you to do, I don’t doubt. She has set her heart, she 
tells me, upon having all your property. She has sent for 
a lawyer just now to get you to make your will. Perhaps 
he will be here soon. If I can help you, or if I am wanted 
for any purpose, just let me know.” 

The old man attempted to speak; his jaw trembled and 
wavered without making any articulate sound. But on his 
face appeared a slight semblance of the grim half-smile with 
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Foreign Freight Service 

which he had looked on Stephen when he announced his 
rule that what was asked for he would never give. 

Having thus kindly prepared the way for Mrs. Krebb, the 
affectionate brother withdrew. 

Soon Mr. Search rang at the door. Mr. Search was a 
young old bachelor. He was a mediocre lawyer, and had 
adopted conveyancing as his specialty in the profession, 
it being his ambition to draw as many mortgages as pos- 
sible for somebody, and then marry the mortgagee s daughter. 
Mortgages enough had he drawn for Mr. Krebb, who was 
his “rich client;” but Mr. Krebb had no daughter — only 
a wife. 

It becomes a lawyer who draws wills to provide for all 
possible contingencies, and he gets in the habit of forecasting 
the future of his client’s family. Mr. Search thought of 
the handsome wife of the sick man; then thought of her 
as handsome widow; and finally decided that he would 
ask for her, as she had requested, and not for Mr. Harry. 

Mrs. Krebb received him graciously, thanked him with 
some feeling for his expressions of grief at her husband’s 
alarming condition, and then entered at once on the business 
before them. 

“He has often expressed to me his intentions. They are 
very kind toward me — could not be more so — he intends 
to leave me every thing; but his brother is here now, and 
he is bent upon obtaining something. He wishes to impose 
his own interests upon my husband; and Mr. Krebb is in 
such a shocking state that I can not allow him to be dis- 
turbed. So I thought I ought to send for you immediately. 
I knew no one else in whom I could so well confide.” 

“I thank you, ma’am,” said the lawyer. “I should say 
to you, frankly, that Mr. Harry Krebb had already sent for 
me when your messenger arrived. But I need only add that, 
with me, your wishes are of course paramount to all others.” 

“He sent for you! What right has he? Is he to be 
present?” 

“He has no right, ma’am. I have received an expression 
of Mr. Krebb’s wishes through yourself. As a professional 
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man, as well as in the capacity of confidential friend, I 
may say that I shall, under the present painful circum- 
stances, regard your own lips as the most proper and authori- 
tative channel of communicating to me the instructions of 
the lamented — I would say of Mr. Krebb, whose speechless 
condition is so much to be lamented. In his condition you 
are the proper person to make known to me his wish for my 
attendance; and I have no hesitation in assuring you, person- 
ally, that I am ready to disregard the requests of any 
others, until Mr. Krebb himself shall indicate some other 
wish.’* 

“Let us then go up stairs at once.” 

“One moment,” said the lawyer; “it is a delicate 
matter to receive instructions for a will under such circum- 
stances. You may rely upon me, Madam, that I compre- 
hend the situation. It is essential that he shall express 
freely his oivn wishes. His own wishes, you understand, 
you know them very well. Above all, we must prevent 
him from being unduly influenced by the will of others. As 
he is speechless, and can only answer by signs of assent or 
dissent, it will be necessary that you should name the 
various objects of bounty which you think he would wish 
to have remembered, the various sums or items of property 
which you may have heard him say, or may have reason 
to think he would give, and I shall gather from him his in- 
structions in a positive manner. Then I will come again 
to-morow, with the will engrossed — ” 

“To-morrow! No, Sir; it must all be done to-day. 
It must, indeed. There is no time to be lost.” 

The old man lay in his bed, and his eyes were closed. 
Within that little sallow head, which looked startlingly 
dark upon the great expanse of white bedding, were work- 
ing little currents of nervous power which even now could 
do more, in one volition, negative or affirmative, than three 
millions of day-laborers. One roll of those half-glazed 
eyes, or a shrinking of those puckered eyebrows, could 
move that which the sheer force of a hundred men in a 
hundred years could not more than replace. What depths 

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of consciousness there might be in this mind it was now im- 
possible to say. The generous powers were long unused 
and dormant. Those phases of consciousness, through 
which the soul is brought into relation with ideals and the 
energizing power of a Future and a Superior had never had 
room for existence in this brain. The whole force of its 
susceptibilities had long been engrossed in one direction. 

A great ruling passion tones the whole mind and forms 
the back-ground upon which all incidental and collateral 
thoughts are wrought out. Every other feeling partakes of 
the nature of the dominant power. In Mr. Krebb’s mind 
there was no charity but a pecuniary charity; no filial or 
fraternal relation that did not involve the idea of heirship 
and succession. The feeling of approbation implied the 
bestowal of money; and that of displeasure implied the 
withholding or withdrawal of it. Gratitude did not exist, 
for everything had its consideration, and more than that 
was a superfluity. Resentment was measured in dollars and 
cents. His whole consciousness had been pecuniary and 
possessory. 

Mrs. Krebb had now the delicate task of reminding him 
that the period of income had passed, and the time of out- 
go had come. She was not aware what a shock she was 
to communicate to this possessory consciousness in proposing 
to reverse the order of its nature, and in one act to nega- 
tive all that it had hitherto attained. 

Five minutes after Mrs. Krebb and the lawyer had en- 
tered the sick-chamber Mr. Harry, becoming impatient and 
suspicious that Mr. Search might enter without calling for 
him, as in fact he had already done, took his newspaper 
and chair and went to the door of the sick-chamber, where 
he seated himself as a sentinel. “There!” said he; “now 
she can’t get in without me. It would be just like her to 
try *’ 

Meanwhile the wife, already within the room, began 
her part in the process of drawing a will out of the dumb 
old man. 

By dint of indifferent questions, such as whether he 


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wished to leave any thing to the Society for the Propaga- 
tion of the Gospel, or the Hospital for Sick Paupers, or 
the Washington Monument, the will got on through two 
clauses by which some trivial bequests were made. Thus 
far the old man had only disposed of two or three thou- 
sands, which did not hurt him much. It was only pinching 
off a twig or two. 

Mrs. Krebb came to a pause after she had named every- 
body but herself, and looked at the lawyer. 

4 ‘Go on,” said he, quietly. 

“And who will you give the rest to, my dear? You 
know you have often said you meant it for me. Will you 
give it all to me, my dear? All you are worth?” 

The old man was immovable. It was like proposing to 
cut him up by the roots. 

“Come, deary! answer me,” urged Mrs. Krebb, feeling 
that she must go on; and she knelt by his side, and 
leaned over him, and kissed his yellow forehead — very 
softly, lest the lawyer should hear it. “Come, deary!* will 
you say yes? That’s my love. Yes! Mr. Search, I 
think he said yes. Oh! I must move; you can not see. 
His eyebrows moved a little. I must ask him again.” 

“Come, my love, you must say it again, so that Mr. 
Search can see it. That’s my dear. Yes, he says he 
means it all for me.” 

The old man’s assent, feeble at first, was repeated again 
and again, more vigorously. 

“Do I understand you, Sir,” said Mr. Search, “to say 
that you wish to leave all the rest and residue, of whatever 
name and nature, both real and personal, to your beloved 
wife, to have and to hold in her own right?” 

“He says yes! he says yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Krebb. 

The old man distinctly signaled yes, but the same grim 
half-smile rested on his bloodless features. Could it mean, 
this time, that what was asked for he would not give? 
His thoughts were his own secret. He certainly did say 
yes. 


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Money Orders 


“There!” said Mrs. Krebb, with a quiet triumph. 
“That’s all. We need not trouble you any more, love. 
I’ll go and call the witnesses.” 

“Stay,” said the lawyer. 

But Mrs. Krebb was already at the door. She opened 
it and looked out. Instantly she shrank back again, but 
not quickly enough to prevent Mr. Harry from springing 
up and thrusting his foot within the door. 

“What are you here for?” 

“What are you here for?” 

“Go away for a little while; you can not see Louis now.” 

“If you are in, I shall come in.” 

“You’ve no right to come in.” 

“You’ll not dare to refuse me.” 

“I do refuse.” 

“That’s enough for me. Then I come in without leave.” 
And forcing the door open, he nearly tipped his sister-in- 
law into the comer as he entered. 

The sick man witnessed this pleasant little contest for 
the post of honor by his bedside. To judge by his cynical 
smile, it seemed rather to amuse than to vex him. “They 
want me to make a will,” said he to himself, “and I’ll hu- 
mor them. They’ll have all my property if I don’t make 
one, and I’ll make one that will vex them. I’ll trap ’em, 
the buzzards!” 

Mrs. Krebb and Mr. Harry each moved rapidly to the 
bedside, as if contesting for the possession of the half- 
animated body, and stood there, alternately doting upon 
him and glaring at each other. 

Mr. Search, not knowing what else to do, went on 
with his questions. The old man directed his eager gaze first 
at the lawyer, whom he was answering, and then at his 
wife and brother, watching the expressions on their faces. 

“You have given all your property to your beloved wife,” 
said the lawyer, resuming the interrupted instructions. 

The old man turned his grim smile upon his brother and 
signaled “Yes.” 

“What, Louis!” exclaimed he, with an oath — “to her?” 
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The old man, as if a new passion reanimated his powers, 
nodded — actually nodded. 

“You’re crazy,” said Harry. 

Louis made as if he would shake his head. 

Mr. Harry threw up his hands as if all was over, and 
threw himself into his chair, while Mrs. Krebb beamed with 
triumph. 

“Do you give it to her without condition or limitation?” 
continued the lawyer. 

The old man turned his looks toward his wife, and, 
enjoying her attention, signaled “No.” 

“What condition do you impose?” 

He still smiled grimly on his wife’s anxious, inquiring 
face, but indicated no reply. 

“Is the bequest for life?” 

“No.” 

“For a term of years?” 

“No.” 

“During widowhood?” 

The old man nodded. 

“Do I understand you that her right ceases if she 
marry again?” 

The old man, without taking his eyes off her face, 
smiled and nodded, as if to say, “How do you like that, 
dearest?” 

The wife hid her face in her hands and threw herself 
back into a chair, and Mr. Harry jumped to his feet again. 

“And what disposition do you make of it in case she 
should marry again?” continued the lawyer, coolly. 

No answer. 

“Do you give it to me, Louis?” appealed his brother. 

Louis looked keenly at him, and slowly nodded. 

Mr. Harry cast a glance of triumph on his sister-in-law, 
as he pressed his inquiry, “You give it all to me — all?" 
“Yes.” 

“He gives it all to me if she marries again,” said Mr. 
Harry, turning to the lawyer. “You understand?” 

“I will take the instructions myself, if you please, Sir,” 


Travelers’ Checks 


returned the lawyer. “I understand you to say,” continued 
he, addressing the testator, ‘‘that, in case of the marriage of 
Mrs. Krebb, you give your estate to Mr. Harry Krebb — 
upon any conditions?” 

“Yes.” 

“What conditions do you wish? Do they relate to his 
use of the property?” 

“No” 

“To his own state or condition?” 

“Yes.” 

“What — marriage ? ” 

“No.” 

“Life?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you limit the gift to a life-estate?” 

“No.” 

“Do you mean to make the gift take effect only in case 
he should be living at the time of such marriage?” 

“Yes.” 

“But if he should not be living how would you dispose 
of it? Do you wish to give it to any of the persons who 
have been mentioned before?” 

“Yes.” 

“To whom? — the children of your sister?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are their names? Stephen, I believe — ” 

“Yes.” 

“And Susan?” 

“Yes.^ 

“Now,” said the lawyer, recapitulating to make this cap- 
ricious purpose distinct, “you give all your estate to your 
wife, provided she does not marry again. If she marries 
again, her right ceases, and you give the estate to your 
brother, provided he be then living. If he be not then 
living, you give it to Stephen and Susan in equal shares.” 

“Yes, yes!” nodded the old man. And with an enthus- 
iasm of malice he looked from wife to brother, and from 
brother to wife, to watch the effect he had produced in 
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thus hedging their expectations with contingencies. He had 
every reason to be gratified with the immediate effect of 
his ingenuity. He had completely embarrassed them both. 

It occurred, of course, to the lawyer that he might per- 
haps modify these intentions of the old man if he should 
point out some of the legal effects of such provisions. But 
whatever personal fancies he may have cherished when he 
commenced to draw a will in favor of the anticipated widow 
were quite cooled by the shocking provision or condition that 
she should remain unmarried. His mind accordingly had 
reverted to its proper professional bearings, and he now 
contemplated the vast estate with whose owner he was 
dealing rather as a fine subject for litigation than as the 
marriage portion of a handsome widow. In this point of 
view he naturally thought, as some others have before him, 
that the worse the will the better the lawsuit. He accord- 
ingly drew out the provisions directed by the testator, and 
after a few minutes’ writing they held the old man up in 
his bed, put the pen into his motionless fingers, and the 
wife moved the tip so as to make a cross upon the paper. 

Mr. Search went away rubbing his hands, and saying 
that that will would keep him in business as long as he 
lived, and that he would not care much on which side he 
should be retained. 

Old Mr. Krebb lay back upon his pillow, chuckling at 
the confusion he had caused to his wife and brother. 

It never occurred to the old man that it was possible for his 
brother to gain by marriage what his wife would lose by 
marriage, and that a compromise of a connubial nature would 
smooth it all over delightfully. 

Mrs. Krebb, who would not otherwise have thought of 
the question of marriage, at least before the time of half- 
mourning, retired to her room to ponder on the subject, and 
vainly endeavored to feel satisfied with the fortune and the 
obligation of widowhood. 

Mr. Harry, a little more shrewd, said to himself, “I’ve 
heard somewhere that a man may not marry his deceased 
wife’s sister. I wonder if a woman can marry her deceased 
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husbands brother. I’ll ask Mr. Search next time I see 
him. If 1 can do that, it will make all right after all. 
The money's what 1 want. Hang the woman, but I’ll have 
the money." 

Here Chum rolled up his paper and sat down. 

The Professor drew a long breath and said: “Very 
good! Queer will that — very queer. But 1 doubt whether 
that will would hold water. Are you sure of your law 
there ? ’’ 

“1 believe, Sir,” replied Chum, gravely, “that it is our 
Rhetoric, not our Law, that is in question here. One 
can’t do justice to two such sciences at once. Sir — at least 
not in Junior year.” 

The Professor laughed with the class, and did not press 
his criticism further. 

“What subject shall we take next month?” asked Chum, 
as the class showed signs of breaking up without having 
received any announcement of a subject. 

“Choose for yourself,” replied the Professor, shuffling 
his papers into the desk and hiding his face behind the lid. 

“ Choose for yourself" repeated Chum to me, in a tone 
heard by the class. “That’s a good subject. That will 
finish off my heroine very well.” 

IV. — CHOOSE FOR YOURSELF. 

While Chum had been telling stories instead of reading 
composition I had amused myself with taking notes in short- 
hand. I wrote out these notes at my leisure, and presented 
him with the manuscript. He grasped my hand and said 
not a word. 

“There you are,” said I. “You can send in your manu- 
script now, and save your standing.” 

“You’re a glorious fellow,” said he. “And I take back 
all the disrespectful things I’ve said about your old ink- 
stand.” 

“The apology is perfectly satisfactory,” said I, for whom 
he really meant it. “Now sit down and tell me your 
story for next month, and we will have that written out 
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beforehand. After that, Chum, you must write your own.” 

This was the way I came to report Chum’s stories. 

On composition day he marched in with all his papers; 
and when he was called on he rose with veritable manu- 
script to read from, instead of blank sheets. 

“There seems to have been some mistake,” he said, by 
way of preface, “about our subject this month. I observe 
that the other members of the class have written on various 
subjects. I have taken the one designated by you. Sir.” 

“By me!” exclaimed the Professor. 

“Yes, Sir; as I understood you. My subject is, ‘Choose 
for Yourself.’ ” 

Old Mr. Krebb, having made his will in such a way 

as to bother the dear kin who begged him to make it, lay 

back contented in his bed, and after lingering helpless a 
short time, suddenly died. His widow occupied the seclu- 
sion of her mourning in endeavoring to decide whether she 
would continue a widow and enjoy the three millions, or 
accept some husband and lose the three millions. Mr. 

Krebb’s brother occupied himself in Mashing the widow 
would marry somebody straightway, and in wondering how 
soon it would do to offer his own hand, and thus endeavor 
to secure the fortune between them upon the best terms 

for himself that she might grant. 

Soon after the old man made his will Mary Cairnes, 
the pretty Irish girl, who had been called in as a witness 
to the execution of the instrument, went home to spend a 
few hours with her invalid brother. When I say “home” 
I mean a snug lodging on the fourth floor of a retired tene- 
ment in the upper part of the town, where Stephen Mer- 
prise and his sister Susan had their little apartments. 

The four sat all the evening in Stephen and Susie’s 
sitting-room. Susie was sewing. Stephen, as usual, was at 
work over his books, for he had always kept up his love 
of reading, although daily engrossed in his trade. Mary 
spent the evening in sewing for her brother, occasionally 
pausing to tell Stephen the meaning of some French phrase 
— she having brought some acquaintance with that language 

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from the Continent, where she had once spent a season in 
the service of an English family — or to tell him of some 
English or Irish town she had been in. 

The convalescent brother retired early, and, leaving his 
door ajar, asked Mary to sing him to sleep, as she had 
often done since she had come to him. She sang, in a 
sweet voice, some quaint native songs, which put him soon 
to sleep, but quite waked up Stephen, who had begun to 
grow sleepy over his books. 

Mary then prepared to return. “I must go back to 
my palace now,” she said gayly. ‘‘Oh! how short an 
evening is when there is only one in a week! It will be 
a long week till I see these dear walls again.” 

“We’ll find you something better to do yet,” said Ste- 
phen. “Why, you could teach! Here you’ve been teach- 
ing me half the evening. Why couldn’t she teach, Susie?” 

“Not in this country, I fear,” said Mary. “It would not 
be what they’d expect. I’m awkward enough where I am 
now. Every thing is strange, so strange, here.” 

Stephen insisted on escorting Mary back to the residence 
of his late uncle. She was a brave girl, and declared 
herself quite able to go alone, but when they were fairly in 
the street she was so timid that she hardly could muster 
courage to take the arm which he offered her. What an 
inconsistent, boasting, fearful little heart — to brave the 
world, and then to be afraid of Stephen, only Stephen! 
And then, after she had taken the arm, there was another 
difficulty worse than the first. It was so very silent. It was 
not one of your noisy streets, full of bustle and distraction. 
On the contrary, it was a quiet, retired way, rather lonely 
to walk through alone. But Stephen marched along and said 
never a word; and it got to be very silent indeed. Oh, for 
a noise, if it were only a cart; something to introduce a 
subject, no matter what! 

Mary kept her eyes on the ground, just as if it were 
necessary to do so on a bright moonlight night and on a 
good pavement! At last it seemed to the eyes which were 

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looking down as if they were being looked at in turn by 
other eyes that were a little above. 

Now that, of course, is very embarrassing. And the 
case becomes still more embarrassing sometimes. For ob- 
serve, that when one’s face is half averted it is difficult to 
see the eyes that are thus half curtained by the eyelids; 
you must lean forward a little to do so; and then, if the 
eyes should look up just at that moment, if the fair curtains 
should be suddenly parted, and the inhabitant within look 
out upon you, you would feel caught, as it were. Wouldn’t 
you, now? Come, be frank about it. Wouldn’t you feel 
a little as if you had been peering in at some casement, and 
the fair inmate had appeared within and detected you 
attempting to spy out the contents of her boudoir? 

Very well; then you know how Stephen felt when Mary 
looked up. 

Now I am not able to state any reason why one pair 
of innocent eyes may not look at another pair of innocent 
eyes without you and I spending a whole page upon the 
phenomenon. 

I go further, and say that I am unable to define the proc- 
ess by which one pair of eyes knows that the other pair 
of eyes is looking in — is not merely casting a casual glance 
upon the casement, as it were, and thinking, perhaps, of 
nothing at all, but actually looking in. 

Now this is a more important question than it seems to be, 
for I have a theory which may explain it. In accordance 
with what I have read in scientific works of the purely 
mechanical, chemical, and electrical constitution of man, 
I have conjectured that when two pairs of eyes thus meet 
so that the axes of vision of each precisely coincide, as they 
must do in the act of looking in, we have two rays of light 
proceeding in opposite directions in precisely the same 
path; and these rays — whether undulatory or corpuscular 
makes no difference to my theory — these rays must agitate 
and perturb each other in a manner quite peculiar to the 
precise conjunction in which they meet, and it is not 
strange that a ray of light, perturbed or agitated in a pe- 
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culiar maimer, should when impinging upon the retina, affect 
the nerves of vision in a peculiar manner, and produce inte- 
rior effects in the cerebral convolutions of the most peculiar 
character. 

If man be such a perfect, admirable machine, this theory 
can easily be tested by a simple experiment, which I mean 
to try. A pair of glass eyes should be taken, and placed 
so as to cast their rays of reflection precisely in the same 
path as the axes of vision of some susceptible young person. 
If it should be found that a pair of glass eyes, or, better 
still, two little round mirrors, under the proper conditions of 
position and light, should produce the same peculiar excite- 
ment of the retina, and awaken in the mind the tenderest 
emotions, then my theory will be established; and we shall, 
moreover, have a triumphant confirmation of the mechanical, 
chemical, and electrical theory of human nature. 

Now when one is caught looking in at windows, it is 
very proper to make an apology; and the best apology is to 
have an errand, or to pretend to have one, which is some- 
times better still. 

So Stephen spoke. But he did not speak very boldly, 
either. He said, “I should like to know what you were 
thinking about, Mary?” 

What a foolish question! And under such circumstances, 
too. To pretend that that was what he was ‘‘looking in at 
the window” for! If that was what he wanted, why didn’t 
he ask her at the outset in a straightforward way, instead 
of looking at her rosy face and drooping eyelids for 
whole minutes at a time without saying a word? 

“Couldn’t you tell me, Mary?” he added, gently, after 
waiting for a reply. 

Now why should he say “Mary”? Because, mind you, 
nobody else was near; and if he had not, she still would 
have understood that she was addressed. But “Mary” is 
a very pretty name, and it sounded very prettily as he said it. 

“I was thinking,” said Mary, “I — I was thinking that — 
that you did not come to your uncle’s house. I was wonder- 
ing why you did not go to see your aunt now.” 

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“I never went there but once, when Mr. Krebb was living/’ 
returned the young man. “I was not welcome. He was very 
busy with his money, and he did not want to see us. That’s 
a good reason, is it not? They never cared for us. I 
don’t suppose my aunt knows we are in New York.” 

‘‘That was a good reason,” replied the girl. But now? 
Now he is gone, and his poor wife is left alone. She has 
a great many acquaintances, but I don’t think she has many 
friends. It’s a very large house, but it’s nearly all shut up, 
dark and deserted. When I think how kind you were to 
my brother when he was in trouble, yes, and to me too, 
when I came all alone and destitute to take care of him — you 
see i was wondering why you did not go to comfort your 
aunt.” 

‘‘Do you think I ought to go?” 

“I did not say that. I said I was wondering why you 
did not.” 

‘‘I said I would not. I said I would never enter the 
house again — never. But Susie says we ought to go.” 

‘‘Then I think so, too,” said Mary, looking up with a 
frank smile straight into the eyes that had embarrassed her 
before. 

Stephen left his companion at the basement-door of the 
great house, and bade her good-night. The next day with 
Susie he rang at the front-door, and was shown into the 
parlor. 

Mrs. Krebb received them with unexpected cordiality. 
After some time spent in conversation about the death of 
Mr. Krebb, and in recalling reminiscences of the days when 
Stephen and his sister had been her pupils, Mrs. Krebb 
led the conversation to the subject of the will, and astonished 
her young relatives by explaining its provisions. 

‘‘That’s a singular will,” said Stephen. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krebb; ‘‘his brother interposed and in- 
duced him to change his original intentions. I think it was 
all owing to his interference.” 

‘‘It was quite unnecessary to mention mp name in it,” said 
Stephen. ‘‘Perhaps you may not know that a short time 

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ago, in pursuance of my mother’s dying request, I offered 
Mr. Krebb the amount she had received from him, with 
interest. 1 did not expect he would receive it; but he did. 
If it had pleased him to return that amount to me I should 
have thought it very just; but i never shall claim any thing 
else.” 

Mrs. Krebb’s eyes sparkled at the idea of Stephen’s so 
readily disavowing any expectations under the will, and 

she replied, ‘‘Indeed, that shall be repaid. It would be 

very generous in you to be satisfied with what I am sure 

is no more than justice. Mr. Krebb was so businesslike in 
all his ways. But I am sure he meant no unkindness.” 

‘‘No,” replied Stephen, ‘‘I did not mean to ask even 
that. It would have been very well for him to have pro- 
vided for it; but he did not; so let us say no more 

about it.” 

This seemed to close this subject of conversation. They 
talked afterward of Mr. Krebb’s illness; and Mrs. Krebb 
inquired, with much kindness of manner, into their circum- 
stances, and Stephen’s prospects in business. Here he was 
quite at home; and from his enthusiastic accounts of his 
work, and his hopes of advancement, one would hardly 
have inferred that he had just stripped himself of the last 
dollar of his savings to repay the uncle. 

Mrs. Krebb made very warm offers of assistance and 
friendship to the young people, for which Stephen thanked 
her, while Susie looked around upon the grand parlor, 
with its paintings and its piano and wished the will had 
been a little different, as it might have been just as well 
as not. 

‘‘No, I thank you,” said Stephen, after Mrs. Krebb had 
said that they must be friends, and had offered to lend 
him money for his business. ‘‘I thank you; but I could 
not borrow. I had better work my own way, and not too 
fast.” 

‘‘And is there nothing I can do for you?” said the 
woman with three millions to the youth with nothing. Susie 
fancied that she became perhaps a little more earnest in 
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offering as Stephen became more distinct in declining. 

“Yes, ma’am; there is one thing. Could you give Mary 
Cairnes two evenings out in the week?” 

“Mary Cairnes! my waitress! are you a friend of hers?” 

Stephen blushed, and Susie interposed. “Yes, auntie — 
If I may call you so. You see, her brother is one of 
Stephen’s workmen, and he was badly hurt, and Stephen 
was taking care of him when Mary came out from Ireland 
to nurse him. They have been very unfortunate. And 
she has only the one evening to see him. He is better 
now, but she needs more time to care for him.” 

“Yes, she shall have two evenings a week, or three, if 
Susie asks it,” replied Mrs. Krebb, smiling. 

So they came away. 

“I should like to live in that house,” said Susie. “I 
never saw anything so finely furnished. Such a library, 
too, for you, Stephen, in the back-parlor.” 

“I’m sorry to hear you say so,” said Stephen. “I don’t 
want it. We’II have one of our own one of these days.” 

“But what a will!” said Susie. “I can’t think of your 
working so hard without wishing that his brother was — 
was dead, and auntie was married again. It’s positively 
wicked, I know; but I can’t help it.” 

“Then don’t think of it,” said Stephen. “We’ll not go 
there again.” 

“Why couldn’t he have divided his property, and made 
us all happy, instead of tantalizing every body with it?” 

“What right has any man, Susie, after he is dead and 
gone, to control what is left in the world, and ought to be 
at the disposal of the living?” 

“It was his own, Stephen, to do with as he pleased.” 

“Yes, Susie, while he lived; but it is not his now. And 
we don’t know what would please him now. Selfishness 
perpetuates itself; but if it pleases him now to look back 
from another world, and see how he has tied the hands 
and entangled the happiness of living, active people for 
years to come — for a lifetime — if that pleases him now, 
he must be among the bad.” 


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“Oh, Stephen, don’t talk so!” 

“Yes, Susie; it may have been his will when he made 
it, but I don’t believe it’s his will now. It’s a vicious will. 
Why should the law give a dead man arms to reach back 
from another world and hold on with an unchangeable grip 
to the possessions he left behind, and ought to have relin- 
quished here? Why should he have the power to hold on 
to his will when he no longer has the power to change it?’’ 

“If he had divided his property it would have united 
us all,’’ said Susie; “but he has forbidden the division, 
and We are all divided instead.’’ 

“Yes,’’ said Stephen. “Money earned is a clear prop- 
erty, but money bequeathed is like treasure-trove — the 
finders never agree. Mere luck makes friends quarrel. 
Here, now, is a happy family! Mrs. Krebb wishes Mr. 
Harry would die, and Mr. Harry wishes Mrs. Krebb 
would get married; and both of them hate us, I dare say, 
because if we were not in existence they would have fared 
better. And we wish them both to forfeit the property, 
and begin to despise the memory of the old man who left 
it. The law is wrong that permits his old skeleton to stand 
for years in the family circle, directing what we shall do 
and what we shall not do. The worst of it is, we can’t 
help ill-feeling. It is irresistible. It would cost us three 
millions to feel like Christians.’’ 

“We will feel like Christians, * said Susie, putting her 
little foot with emphasis on the pavement; “and I wish 
our names were not mentioned in the will.’’ 

“I am glad to hear you say so,’’ said Stephen; “and 
now let us forget it all.’’ 

If you think that Stephen was unnaturally philosophical 
in this you are quite correct, and he half thought so him- 
self. His mind did not long hold to the resolution he had 
just formed. He soon began to see more of the other 
side of the question, and the more real and tangible the 
great fortune seemed as he thought of it, the more vex- 
atious seemed the freak that had debarred his sister and 
himself from their lawful and immediate share in his 


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uncle’s estate. He shortly came to the conclusion that, 
although he would not care for it himself, it was his duty 
as toward Susie to assert some claim, if any *were 
sustainable. 

He was in this mood when old Mr. Harry Krebb 
called upon him to endeavor to enlist his co-operation in 
the event of a lawsuit. Mr. Krebb gave such an account 
of the circumstances under which the will was made, and 
of the old man’s weakness and eccentricity, and of the 
legal opinions he had obtained to the effect that the will 
itself was void on this account, that he induced Stephen 
to consent to join him in bringing an action to set the 
will aside. 

In giving this consent Stephen was, perhaps, actuated 
more by the desire of protecting his sister’s rights than of 
asserting his own ; and he made it a condition that he 
should not be called on to give a day of time or a dollar 
of money to the litigation. Mr. Harry was much pleased 
to secure thus the entire management of the case to him- 
self; and Stephen went through the formality of making 
oath to the bill of complaint, in which it was alleged that 
he was informed and believed that the testator was not of 
sound mind and memory, and was not capable of making 
a will. Mr. Harry’s lawyer, who attended to administer 
the oath, congratulated the young man upon being a 
plaintiff in one of the greatest lawsuits of the age; and, if 
the truth were told, Stephen, with all his appearance of 
indifference, felt as if he had taken another step upon the 
ladder of life when he saw his name affixed to the paper 
in Krebb against Krebb, and thought of the possible con- 
sequences of such an act. 

As for Susie, she was at first more pained at the idea 
of combining to prosecute her aunt than pleased at the 
hope of success, but she soon reconciled herself to the 
position of a plaintiff, and wondered how soon they would 
go to court and hear the verdict. 

As for Mary, imagine how glad she was to get two 
evenings a week with her brother. When Susie told her 

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of the brilliant contingencies which opened before them 
tears of joy filled her eyes, which always beamed with 
gratitude upon those who had befriended her brother. But 
Stephen thenceforward found her less social and communi- 
cative than before, and more impatient than ever that her 
brother should be able to move. 

Old Harry Krebb, armed with his bill of complaint, and 
the appropriate writ or process to commence the great 
suit of Krebb against Krebb, went one fine day to call 
upon his sister-in-law. He determined that she should be 
either his wife or his defendant, and he resolved to press 
a suit in one sense or the other. To make a sure thing 
of it, the crusty old fellow was prepared to threaten as 
well as to coax. 

Mr. Harry dined at his club, and spent an hour over his 
wine in meditating on the policy he should pursue in con- 
versing with the widow. The deep fellow got so deep that 
when he rose to go and seek Mrs. Krebb he was full of 
love and law in a strange mixture. At first he had been 
uncertain whether it were wiser to threaten first and offer 
afterward, or to offer first and threaten afterward. This 
difficulty disappeared as he got on with his wine, and he 
soon found the most opposite sentiments comfortably com- 
mingled. In the fullness of anticipated triumph he said 
to himself, as he swaggered along toward her house, 
“Sink or swim, marry or sue, bride or defendant, kisses 
or costs, by Heaven I’ll have my share of the money!” 

On this swelling wave of exulting resolution this brave 
but poor lover was floated into the presence of the 
widowed millionaire. 

“What does this fellow want?” thought Mrs. Krebb, 
as Mr. Harry swayed across the room, kissed her hand, 
and made as if he would sink on one knee before her. 

“Dearest Margaret,” said he, “I have come to avow my 
heart, and to propose a happy settlement of all our differ- 
ences, to declare the sentiments with which your beauty and 
worth — your worth, I mean personal worth, I do not allude 
to property — have inspired me.” 

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The horror with which the lady drew back from him 
glimmered dimly into the excited mind of the lover, and 
admonished him that he was getting on too fast. t 

“Yes, dearest one — for so I must call you, and I know 
you will not forbid me till you have heard me. Yes! I 
have come to tell you of the dilemma in which you stand, 
and to offer myself to deliver you, if you will accept me. 

“Yes, dearest, there is a combination — there is a lawsuit 
about to be commenced, to set aside the very extraordinary 
will your late husband made. I am informed and believe, 
as deponent saith, that it was fraudulent and void.” 

“Who says that?” said Mrs. Krebb, indignantly. “How 
dare you?” 

“ Deponent saith,” responded the old fellow, with a 
shrewd look. “It’s only the language of the law, my dear; 
the law talks very bad, sometimes; and the worst of it is 
that what the judge asks the witness must tell. I was in 
the room when the will was made. It will not be my fault 
if I am made to appear against your interests.” 

Mrs. Krebb was silent. 

“Your late husband,” continued the brother, “has con- 
demned you to be a widow, and left you to fight your 
battles alone. I can set you free in the sweet bonds of 
matrimony. You would not lose anything by uniting your 
fortunes with mine. Together we could defy any oppo- 
sition.” 

“I do not believe a word of it,” said the widow. “There 
is no one but yourself to interfere with me. The Merprises 
are content. What do you want? What do you mean 
to do?” 

“Ah! my dear Margaret, I must either agree with you 
or agree with the rest of the family. I must either stand 
by the will or yield it up. I come to you to propose that 
— to propose — yes, in short, to propose — that’s it. If you 
will have me, I am yours; and we can easily arrange 
details about the property on equable terms. But other- 
wise I must go against the will and set it aside. In other 
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Money Orders 


words, my dear, I come with a ring in one hand and a 
writ in the other, and you must choose for yourself.” 

Mrs. Krebb broke into a merry laugh, during which her 
odd suitor stood rather sheepishly awaiting her answer. 
She was divided between indignation and a sense of the 
ludicrous, and she half laughed, half scowled her reply: 

‘‘Show me the writ and show me the ring, and 1 will 
choose very soon.” 

‘‘There’s the writ,” said Mr. Harry, reluctantly draw- 
ing it out. ‘‘I haven’t any ring here.” 

“Never mind the ring to-night,” responded the lady. 
“Leave me now, and I will give you my answer to-morrow, 
after I have read this.” 

“1 can not leave it. I must take it with me.” 

“No! If you want my answer leave it, and I will 
respond to your proposal to-morrow. And now good-night 
Harry,” she added, looking at him with momentary tolera- 
tion, and offering her hand. 

She led him to the door and shut him out into the 
hall. She heard him groping for his hat and stick, for 
though the hall was lighted his eyes were hazy ; and at 
last he closed the outer door, and his uncertain feet des- 
cended the front steps. 

“It seems to me that your story is rather long,” inter- 
posed the Professor, rapping on his desk to enforce the 
interruption. “The hour is up.” 

“Let him go on,” said the boys, in a general chorus. 

“It is rather long,” said Chum, gravely, “or rather it 
was, but it is getting shorter every minute.” 

“Hm!” ejaculated the Professor. “It is time for me 
to go,” looking at his watch. “Any of the class can go who 
wish to. Can’t you tell us in a few words how it ends? 
It’s a pity to leave it there.” 

“In a few minutes I can. Sir,” responded Chum. “The 
Death and Marriage column, you know, is always a short 
one.” 

“Well! well! Go on. You may as well read it all 
while you’re about it.” 53 


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Nobody moved to leave the class-room; and we all 
settled ourselves to hear the conclusion. Chum resumed 
his reading: 

We left old Mr. Harry descending the steps of the 
Krebb mansion. On his way home the half-tipsy man was 
run over in the street, and did not live to receive an 
answer to the dilemma which he had proposed to the 
widow. 

The decease of this dashing old beau was lamented onfy 
by his creditors — those faithful friends who hold that 
while there is life there is hope, and who never say die 
unless they can get their money by saying it. These — for 
many such friends he had — mourned his untimely end. 
Mrs. Krebb felt unspeakably relieved, and even Stephen 
and Susie thought with satisfaction that one obstacle was 
removed. 

It will not be expected that one who is not yet even a 
bachelor of arts should be able adequately to describe the 
play of those tender emotions which undergraduates are 
presumed never to have experienced. I must therefore say 
bluntly, as a parrot would blurt it out, not knowing what 
it means, that Stephen was in love with Thomas’s pretty 
sister, and Mary has since as good as acknowledged that 
if it had not been for the bugbear of a fortune hanging 
over his head they would have made a match of it 
straightway. But she, blushing girl, had her own ideas 
about station in life, and keeping her own place; and 
while she perhaps confessed to herself that she liked 
Stephen poor, and even Stephen as a master-workman, she 
was quite disconcerted by the thought of Stephen a million- 
aire. Stephen himself was not long in conjecturing her 
heart. 

It would be a very charming narrative, were I capable 
of tracing it, to describe the courtship of this poor-young- 
possible-rich man. Living in his garret, working at his 
trade, thinking himself prospered when the end of a month 
left a few dollars surplus, and triumphing in Mary’s 
genial congratulations thereat, and yet in his poverty ham- 

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pered with a capricious possibility of a fortune which 
threatened to break all the prospects of his love. He found 
he could not get on either with his work or his love unless 
he resolutely foreswore all such expectations, and kept him- 
self doggedly in the hard path of self-reliance. 

So he refused to continue the suit against the will when 
it was suspended by Mr. Harry’s death, and declared him- 
self quite indifferent to the matter. 

I will not say but that after he felt himself quite secure 
in the affections of his modest Mary he intended to make 
a new attempt to claim the fortune; but meanwhile he stuck 
well to his work; and after some objections he consented 
that Mary should, for a time at least, continue that service. 

It was during this period, while Stephen was building 
castles in the air, not knowing whether they would turn 
out cottages or palaces, that a strange gentleman called at 
the great mansion of Mrs. Krebb and asked for her. Mary 
Cairnes saw him as he passed up stairs, and thought she 
had seen him before. He had a handsome yet weather- 
browned face, was well dressed, and had the bearing 
of a traveler. Mary could fix no recognition of him in 
her mind, but his apparition aroused reminiscences of her 
voyage, and the movements of the ocean. Neither of the 
servants heard him go away; whether he made a long 
call or a short one they could not tell. A day or two 
afterward Mrs. Krebb went away alone in her carriage, 
and came home late in the afternoon. The coachman 
said she went to the railroad station, and required him to 
await her return; he did not see any one meet her. The 
next day some one was heard to enter the house and pass 
up stairs. Mrs. Krebb said nothing to the servants of any 
visitor, and their curiosity was appealed to strongly by the 
circumstances. 

It is a very curious feeling, that — the dim consciousness 
that something unknown is going on in the very circle of 
your own household. The sense of being on the outside 
of a secret penetrates the calmest mind, and quickens the 
perceptions of all the senses. Servants live in this con- 
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tinual condition, and it is not to be alleged against them 
as a sin, if the retina of the eye does become sensitive in 
side spots, so that what happens in a corner forces itself 
upon them; or if the drum of the ear grows ticklish, and 
takes notice, like that of the factory operative, of the 
least variation in sound from the ordinary monotony of 
routine. Nor is there any more exciting phase of this 
feeling them that which is aroused by the conviction that 
Somebody is in the house. Somebody! Treads come to 
be as well known as tones of voice. A tremor of the 
floor is either understood as plainly as a door-bell, or it 
makes you hold your breath and say, “It sounds as if 
Somebody were in the house!” 

This belief began to prevail below stairs in Mrs. Krebb’s 
mansion. But in proportion as the subject grew interest- 
ing to the cook and the coachman, it grew disagreeable to 
Mary Caimes, who had less fancy for footfalls and key- 
holes and circumstantial evidence of scandals. She re- 
solved, after a few days of these suspicions, to leave the 
house, and went upstairs to avow her determination to 
her employer, and ask for a recommendation. Mrs. Krebb 
had the best of reasons for acceding to this request without 
injury or objection, and gave her leave to go immediately. 
She opened her port-folio, and taking a scrap of paper, 
wrote her a good character, paid her in full, and bade her 
good-by. Mary, surprised and greatly relieved to be thus 
easily dismissed, left her first service, hoping that it might 
be her last. 

When Stephen came home in the evening he listened 
to the story in silence. The accounts of the other ser- 
vants, which Mary repeated in answer to his inquiries, 
after she had given the reason of her leaving, raised in his 
mind the conjecture that there had been a clandestine mar- 
riage. Stephen asked for the recommendation which Mrs. 
Krebb had given her. 

“What are you going to do, Stephen?” asked his sister. 

“I don’t know, Susie. If it is a scandal in high life 
we’ve nothing to do with it. If Mrs. Krebb is married 

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again, as it seems she ought to be, we have something to 
say.” 

As he folded up the paper some words penciled on the 
back caught his eye. They seemed to be, “Train for 
Hastings at 10 o’clock.” 

He asked Mary who wrote that, but she did not know. 

It had not been written since she had the paper. Mrs. 
Krebb took the paper from among the other loose pieces 
in her port-folio. She thought it was not Mrs. Krebb’s 
own handwriting. 

Stephen resolved to follow up this clew. The next m 
day he went to the Hudson River station, and found 
there was a train for Hastings at the time named. He took 
it, and alighted in that town an hour after. The only 
question for me, said he, is, has there been a wedding? By 
inquiries at the residence of the clergyman of the town 
he found that on the day on which Mrs. Krebb had been 
absent a couple had called to ask for the clergyman, but 
that he was out of town at the time, and that they had 
gone away without giving any address. The vague de- 

scription given him of the personal appearance of the lady 
was hardly enough to identify her positively, but the cir- 
cumstance was sufficient for Stephen, and he resolved to 
call on Mrs. Krebb and ask her the question bluntly. 

Although the young man had felt little inclined to re- 
gard the contingent possibilitiy of his succeeding to the 

fortune so long as it was a mere possibility, he was not 
inclined now to submit to any deception. “I told her,” 
said he to himself, “that I would never claim any more of 
his money than my own that I had paid him, but I will 

not allow her to defraud Susie, nor me either. She shall 

acknowledge the truth to me herself.” 

The servants* conjectures proved to be so far true that 
there was, in fact, “Somebody in the house.” Somebody 
sat and talked with Mrs. Krebb in her sitting-room up 
stairs. Somebody came without its being known when he 
went away, and went without its having been known that 
he had come. 


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Stephen, resolved to penetrate this mystery, called upon 
his aunt, and was shown into her presence. 

After an awkward pause he said, bluntly, “Well, ma’am, 
I have come to ask you if you are married again.” 

Mrs. Krebb, instead of being covered with confusion at 
the discovery of her secret, merely smiled. “I confess,” 
said she, “that there are some circumstances which would 
tend to excuse such a suspicion on your part. But I am 
surprised that you could think me capable of taking such 
a step clandestinely.” 

# “I am not content with an evasive answer, Madam. 
Answer me, yes or no, if you please, and do not mislead 
me.” 

“I will not mislead you; but to answer either yes or 
no, alone, would mislead you.” 

“I do not understand you, ma’am.” 

“Well, then, let me ask you a question. Supposing that 
I am married again, what do you propose to do?” 

This question, put in a quiet, smiling way, irritated 
the young man. 

“It is enough for me,” said he. “I have circumstantial 
evidence which renders it probable that you are clandes- 
tinely married. You do not deny it, but say that to deny 
it would be false. If you don’t choose to tell the truth, 
no matter. I know the truth.” 

“Well, what do you propose to do?” 

“I will tell you what I do not propose to do. I do 
not propose to treat with pou. Your marriage forfeits the 
property, and it is now Susie’s and mine. The will pro- 
vides so. And however I might have felt if it were 
otherwise, I consider that any attempt at concealment on 
your part, such as I have detected, calls on me to assert 
our rights under the will.” 

“Perhaps you do not wish to discuss the question ex- 
cept by means of litigation; but you have already furnished 
me with a sufficient answer to you claim.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You have already informed me that you disavowed any 
expectations under the will.” 


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“What if I did? It was in conversation. I thought 
so then. But I have changed my mind.” 

“You forget to prove the will void. You made oath 
to it, I believe. It is too late for you to make any claim 
under the will.” 

So saying she drew from her port-folio the papers 
which Mr. Harry had left her. Stephen was silenced. He 
had nothing to say. He knew that he could not assert his 
rights without a law-suit, of which he had a great horror; 
and he saw that his adversary had the means of a defense 
or the show of a defense which he had not anticipated. 
He thought the easiest way out of it was to cut the knot 
in a way consistent both with his sense of his sister’s 
rights and his own independence. 

“I am not disposed,” he replied, “to make litigation. 

I will tell you what I will do. Whatever I have said 
or done / will abide by. But that shall not prejudice 
Susie. You shall surrender to her one-half of the estate 
without any controversy, and we will both waive all further 
claim, marriage or no marriage.” 

“Please put the terms in writing, that they may be 

understood definitely; and I must show them to my ad- 

viser before I offer it as a proposal binding on me?” 

Who was the adviser? Stephen did not know, unless it 
might be her legal adviser, until Mrs. Krebb took the 

paper he had written at her request and left the room, ask- 
ing him to wait. Then it became apparent to Stephen that 
Mrs. Krebb’s adviser was “Somebody in the house.” 

Mrs. Krebb came back smiling. “My adviser does not 
approve of the terms,” said she. 

“They are too liberal.” 

Stephen took up his hat, and moved to leave the room. 

“Stay!” said she; “too liberal on your part, I mean. 
He says that I ought to relinquish more than half. To 
keep half would be scarcely just. For if there is no mar- 
riage you are entitled to nothing; and if there is a mar- 
riage, I think Susie would be ill satisfied with half the 
estate for herself and nothing for you.” 

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“What do you propose, then?” said Stephen, who be- 
gan to feel that he was perhaps not gifted, certainly not 
experienced, in such negotiations. 

“I propose that you and Susie should accept two-thirds 
of the estate, and waive all further claim in case of my 
marriage. Supposing that you were entitled to the whole 
estate — a claim you have already repudiated — and sup- 
posing that you could enforce the claim by a lawsuit, I 
ask you to relinquish your claim as to one-third upon my 
surrendering the other two-thirds.” 

“I would rather agree amicably upon that than recover 
the Tehole by a lav/suit,” said Stephen, frankly. 

‘‘Then you entertain the proposal?” asked Mrs. Krebb. 

‘‘Yes, certainly. I will consider it. I can not answer 
finally now.” 

‘‘I have a reason for proposing to reserve one-third 
which I think will be perfectly satisfactory to you when 
you know it.” 

‘‘Perhaps so,” said Stephen, dryly; ‘‘but I can’t calculate 
the value of your mysteries. I must go on known facts.” 

‘‘Very well. You will consider the matter.” 

»» 

I es. 

‘‘And we will come and see you to-morrow evening, and 
see if it is agreed on — if you will allow us.” 

The last words, and the cordial tones in which they were 
uttered by a handsome woman, overcame Stephen’s pride. 

‘‘You will find us young birds in a very humble nest,” 
said he, as he gave his address. ‘‘It is the fourth floor, 
the door on the right. It would be more suitable for me 
to come here, and I would rather do so.” 

‘‘Ah! but you forget Susie. And then we want to see 
Susie in her own home.” 

“And who is it who is to come with you, may I 
ask?” said Stephen, with something of the cynical tone 
with which he had commenced the conversation. 

“You will see,” said Mrs. Krebb. 

“Your adviser, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” replied she, laughing, “my adviser, we will say 
for the present.” g* 


Foreign Express Service 

“And I presume it will be proper for me to have my 
adviser there too?” 

“Certainly, if you wish,” she replied, looking at him, in 
her turn, with an inquisitive air. 

Stephen laughed, internally saying to himself, “She shall 
find that I can make a mystery as well as she can. And 
he added: “Then my adviser shall certainly be there, 
unless, indeed, she objects to be present.” 

“She! Who is she?” But Stephen was gone. He heard 
the question, and left his aunt to wonder what sort of a 
female lawyer Stephen had found for a legal adviser. 

The young man now felt that his fortune was secured. 
His first act was the extravagance of buying a rich but 
simple ring, which he put that evening on Mary’s finger 
as a pledge of their engagement. She mildly reproved 
him for being a spendthrift, but mingled such very sweet 
counter-agents with her chidings that he would have done 
it again in a minute. Stephen laid Mrs. Krebb’s proposal 
before Susie, who joyfully approved it; but he did not 
mention her intended visit, because he wished it to be re- 
ceived in the most simple and natural way. Nor did he 
say a word of the negotiation to Mary, other than to tell 
her that he had got his first and last secret from her, which 
he should conceal only a few hours. Mary, looking at 
him calmly, seeing that he was in earnest — half grave, half 
smiling — set a sort of seal upon his lips that quite ex- 
cused him for maintaining silence on the topic. 

On the appointed evening Stephen was sitting with his 
little circle making an unsuccessful attempt to read aloud 
to them. 

“I declare, Stephen,” cried Susie, “something possesses 
you to-night, for you stop reading every time you hear a 
noise. If it were not a public staircase one would think 
you suspected somebody was in our house.” 

At this instant the door was opened by Stephen, and 
Mrs. Krebb entered, leaning on the arm of a tall and 
handsome gentleman, who looked about him with a blunt 
frank, kindly smile. 


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“Good-evening!” said he, with a loud voice. “I wish 
joy to your little home. Nay, I see it here already. And 
this is Stephen, is it? Stephen, my boy, your hand!” and 
in a moment Stephen’s surprised and unresisting hand was 
in the grip of a weather-beaten fist. “What! don’t you 
remember me? Ah, look! No? Well, well! I deserve 
it. And here’s Susie,” said he, turning himself toward 
her and stretching out his arms as if he hesitated to ad- 
vance first, while his eyes filled with her charming image 
and overflowed in two little exclamation points of tender 
feeling on his cheeks. “Here’s Susie; what does the sister 
say? 

“Why Stephen!” exclaimed the agitated girl. “ Etienne /” 
and she rushed into the outstretched arms that met her half- 
way. 

“It is my brother,” said Stephen, in his matter-of-fact 
way, and the next moment the men were embracing, while 
Susie hung on their in discriminated necks putting in a kiss 
here and there at a hazard. But none of them were lost, 
Susie — sister dear! 

Mrs. Krebb stood on one side, alternately laughing and 
crying at this scene. On the other side stood Mary, with 
her work in her hand, just as she had risen to leave the 
room, but transfixed with astonishment at this strange recog- 
nition of a face familiar to herself. As soon as she re- 
covered herself she took her brother’s hand to cause him 
to rise to leave the room with her. But Etienne said to 
Stephen, “Do not let her go;” and Stephen called her 
back. 

“This,” said Mrs. Krebb, coming forward to Etienne 
and taking him by the arm — “this is my adviser.” 

“And this,” said Stephen, drawing Mary to him with 
one hand, and holding her at his side with the other arm 
around her — “this is my adviser.” 

Of course Mary looked up in blank astonishment. 

“Yes,” said Stephen, “you are and you always shall be 
my adviser.” 

“Stephen,” said Etienne, “I acknowledge that you are 
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even with me. I intended to surprise you, but you have 
anticipated me.” 

‘‘I remember your brother,” said Mary, speaking for 
the first time. “He saved us from shipwreck. I must 
thank him, which I did not do when I left him.” 

“No,” said the captain, for such Etienne of course 
was. “My dog ran away with you; and, to tell the 
truth, I didn’t blame him.” 

The captain took both of Mary’s hands, and looked into 
her deep blue eyes. His right hand felt the ring upon the 
significant finger, and Mary felt him roll it back and forth 
as he leaned forward and kissed her brow. 

“I’ve no need to wish you joy, Stephen,” said he. "You 
have it all here; and if money can do you any good 
you shall have that too. When I came to New York last 
voyage a happy fate brought me to Margaret again. She 
decided to offer you half the estate and go with me; but 
I told her it ought to be two-thirds at least. I don’t want 
more, for I’ve got enough; you might take it all and not 
hurt me. We’ve been up to Margaret’s old home and made 
all the arrangements for the wedding, which is to be very 
quiet, for I’m a sort of truant, and nobody knows me; 
and it’s to be next week. So it’s all arranged, and it’s 

only for you to say if it’s agreeable to you, and what we 

shall do with the big estate?” 

“There, Mary,” said Stephen, “you see how it is; they 
propose to divide the estate into three shares, just as it 
would have been if Etienne had come home before Uncle 
Krebb had died, and they ask us if we approve of the 
match.” 

Poor Mary blushed at Stephen’s blunt way of making 
her to appear the arbiter of her late employer’s fortune 

and fate. She could only look up and timidly say: “You 

must choose for yourself, Stephen. I am quite too happy 
as it is.” 

“She says,” said Stephen, good-naturedly, “that we 
must choose for ourselves; of course that involves being 
pleased with each other’s choice. As to the estate, give 

63 


me enough to set up in business for myself, and to give 
Thomas here a start, and Susie must have the rest of what 
you don’t take.” 

No you don t, Stephen, said Etienne, maliciously. “If 
you don t take your third I’ll never consent to your 
choice. So now, Mary, make him come to terms. And 
what is more, you must give up business and take care of 
the estate for us all. That will be enough occupation for 
y °j’ fj r we are going abroad, and I can’t attend to it; 
and I dare say Susie will make you her banker too.” 

In due time the weddings took place. They all went 
up to Hastings to the captain’s wedding, which took place 
there; but Stephen insisted on being married in the same 
little sitting-room where his vows had been pledged in 
poverty, and Mary quite agreed with him in beginning 
modestly his new career. 


Here Chum closed his paper and sat down. A buzz of 
satisfaction ran through the class, and they began to rise. 

The Professor was heard tapping on his desk, and the 
room was silenced again. 

You ^ ave no * told us, ’ said he, “what became of 
Susie.” 

The boys all took their seats again as Chum rose to 
reply. 

As far as my account goes,” said he, “that must be 
left to the imagination. It may be that she went abroad 
with Etienne and his wife, and that she spent the winter 
in Rome and married some Russian prince or an Italian 
nobleman. It may be that she staid quietly with Stephen 
and Mary, and that Thomas turned out a remarkably 
promising young man after he had been naturalized. Or 
it may be that she set up her own establishment on Fifth 
Avenue, and went into society with her own span on the 
Bloomingdale Road, and her own cottage at Newport, until 
she found her match in that way. On such questions as 
these, Sir, I can only say, as you told us in giving out the 
task, you may * Choose for yourself.* ” 

64 


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